tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-271174144152971902024-03-13T19:48:43.092-07:00Late To The Haight with Patricia CorriganSome 43 years after the Summer of Love, in 2010 I moved to San Francisco, shredding the fabric of a comfortable life in St. Louis and stitching together something new. I am a writer (thousands of articles, more than a dozen books), a whale watcher (for over 35 years) and an adventurer in the Baby Boomer tradition. Read on!
LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-74494988097707273572024-02-29T16:57:00.000-08:002024-03-01T08:20:33.524-08:00From Socks to Pilates to Pilates Socks <p>Stretching, twisting, raising my left leg while others in the exercise class raise the right, I notice my rowdy tie-dye socks complement perfectly the shirt worn by the instructor. </p><p>That would be one <a href="https://abigailmunn.com/">Abigail Munn</a>, the "high-flying" founder and director of the splendid <a href="https://www.circusbella.org/">Circus Bella</a>. She kindly offers a free exercise class once a week at my building, home to independent seniors 62 and older. </p><p>At an appropriate moment, I draw Abigail’s attention to my socks, which are mostly orange with some peachy pink and yellow highlights. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6zT6InT5xI156mHwMye-oABO94kg8n9XyTJRxqOA6Hwy4Y0TIHdznQok3sdl-NvFYX-sfAfn1UJXO05iPleynK0Ayddg09UFRwkg53_A7tAxqxpCfq4TWLCXNTsSnv2xF3vMnYfZzGdUr09hR0AJR7x_3HEonvh8vLuYSeOOqiCLbzfFLvBOo2DICA/s4032/porange.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA6zT6InT5xI156mHwMye-oABO94kg8n9XyTJRxqOA6Hwy4Y0TIHdznQok3sdl-NvFYX-sfAfn1UJXO05iPleynK0Ayddg09UFRwkg53_A7tAxqxpCfq4TWLCXNTsSnv2xF3vMnYfZzGdUr09hR0AJR7x_3HEonvh8vLuYSeOOqiCLbzfFLvBOo2DICA/s320/porange.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>"They’re great!” she enthuses, “and this shirt is my favorite color. I call it ‘porange.’” I immediately promise to wash the socks and give them to her next week. I'm unsure whether Abigail believes me, but she giggles. </p><p>Friends were relieved when, almost 14 years ago, I packed up my tie-dye shirts, socks and scarves and moved from St. Louis to San Francisco. “Finally,” they said, “you’re going to live somewhere that appreciates tie-dye!” (Have to add that Hawaii is a fan, as well — see below.) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPcNEby6_eNrs9BDDKX6c6Z02Bjvl0cnsTj9eLyWetEPn2zLnpvEuCqAW9SI_Ri08hxQsitObFCVGhRdBDVIwBVVwb1q7DoFBmVCHiF16ma6UuIA5sD9NoEsvvwl8l7_7vKzam5Wd4mRxXHPxLDS7RB_e172olt3523BoOZK0tT5lkymYeMCLWCgNkg/s1280/Hawaii1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicPcNEby6_eNrs9BDDKX6c6Z02Bjvl0cnsTj9eLyWetEPn2zLnpvEuCqAW9SI_Ri08hxQsitObFCVGhRdBDVIwBVVwb1q7DoFBmVCHiF16ma6UuIA5sD9NoEsvvwl8l7_7vKzam5Wd4mRxXHPxLDS7RB_e172olt3523BoOZK0tT5lkymYeMCLWCgNkg/s320/Hawaii1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Soon after I moved, my tie-dye wardrobe grew. I bought a vintage shirt or two off the tie-dye rack at Goodwill (true fact) and discovered great socks at the <a href="https://sockshophaightstreet.com/">SockShop</a> on Haight Street. They were hand-fashioned by a couple in Fort Bragg (164 miles north of San Francisco), and many people reading this own a pair, because I gave the socks as gifts for DECADES. Sadly, that vendor went out of business a couple of years ago. </p><p>While researching an article for <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/">Next Avenue</a> on communities that support the arts in the <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/creativity-abounds-north-and-south-carolina/">Carolinas</a>, I found a new source for beautiful tie-dye socks when I interviewed owner Jessica Kaufman at <a href="https://www.waxonstudio.com/">WAXON Batik and Dye Studio</a> in Asheville. (Click on the Etsy shop.) We just reconnected, and I ordered two new pairs to expand my stash. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3CLI1gwEAbpL8q8bxulUqV2dCahdg2o1avB089n9kPVyt2jltfhkRfMIUiFUSdHtGsY-EnT2-kQSosTXEJDXM6b1O2Q83PA7l3oqZFQkWx4WpaRbmNJZGcY3jyeYEXr4NYIDK6HnENy_1CBH_ek1l-SvstdzxJHkIabjgwo8XXn_QVGCym6HZQEn9g/s4032/sockpile.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih3CLI1gwEAbpL8q8bxulUqV2dCahdg2o1avB089n9kPVyt2jltfhkRfMIUiFUSdHtGsY-EnT2-kQSosTXEJDXM6b1O2Q83PA7l3oqZFQkWx4WpaRbmNJZGcY3jyeYEXr4NYIDK6HnENy_1CBH_ek1l-SvstdzxJHkIabjgwo8XXn_QVGCym6HZQEn9g/s320/sockpile.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>As it happens, water shoes, not socks, are in order for my favorite form of exercise — water aerobics, which I started more than 50 years ago. Since 1980, I’ve also worked out on many a fitness machine, mastered at least two poses (legs up the wall and corpse pose) in yoga, tried (and failed, though no one cared) to stay in step at assorted Zumba and Jazzercise classes and wrestled repeatedly with the elegant Swimming Dragon exercise in Qigong class. </p><p>(What — you didn't realize I was a bit of a jock?)</p><p>More recently (sigh), I’ve relied primarily on physical therapy — in and out of the water — and assorted stretching classes (thanks, Abigail!) to help alleviate lower back pain. Now I'm ready for something new! Last October, my friend Lison raved about the benefits of Pilates, and she convinced me to try it. </p><p>After a series of scheduling conflicts (mine and the instructor’s), 10 days ago I finally attended a demonstration on a Pilates reformer. Wait — did I say “demonstration?” That's what it was called, but I’m the one who was asked to hop on the table and try 50 minutes of exercises! I did it, though not always correctly or gracefully, but I liked it a lot! </p><p>Now I’m enrolling in three private lessons so I can then sign up for a beginner-level class by the end of March. I look forward to improved core strength, better mobility and stamina. Maybe I'll even get taller! This new endeavor has called for new socks, because my beloved tie-dye socks aren’t grippy enough. But as of this morning, I am prepared. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NnDMtcwY5NQIU2l44iI8vwMR5zv55hq5Hr6AQRfhM8aBomULgM3ih62e1UcevxblHNuLnXWyV9ZQmY1EFaIcj5ac3tpsex5nnokzLc6uyLR4bcXvS1OgulO2ZS6LCxsnRYgfkyMe1HUnZe_4QQbtRLQqyGclmfWRHugteOfAetOrHPvHzyOaFBkFZQ/s4032/PilatesSocks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4NnDMtcwY5NQIU2l44iI8vwMR5zv55hq5Hr6AQRfhM8aBomULgM3ih62e1UcevxblHNuLnXWyV9ZQmY1EFaIcj5ac3tpsex5nnokzLc6uyLR4bcXvS1OgulO2ZS6LCxsnRYgfkyMe1HUnZe_4QQbtRLQqyGclmfWRHugteOfAetOrHPvHzyOaFBkFZQ/s320/PilatesSocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-19641674233240256042024-01-27T21:08:00.000-08:002024-01-28T10:19:16.120-08:00How I Spent My Covid Vacation <p>Napping. Coughing. Napping. Sneezing. Napping.</p><p>Repeat.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzVhEsc6n59_NCA_mRGJadMwlAFYwMyiTKI1CO7jG3BA0Do4ViZBbUnhkD_CFbbKj6FPs8wLI5Y_VJ1F66ee-81syZMiw7E89WliRQV64qgfh8uQ1VmxsptJ2H_y1rPzBodM3rADDzfjloMVtsAtbW_h64HlZvFnGyQkfy4zIFsP5eFzs1YkxJNltvbw/s1473/Covidtest.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="1473" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzVhEsc6n59_NCA_mRGJadMwlAFYwMyiTKI1CO7jG3BA0Do4ViZBbUnhkD_CFbbKj6FPs8wLI5Y_VJ1F66ee-81syZMiw7E89WliRQV64qgfh8uQ1VmxsptJ2H_y1rPzBodM3rADDzfjloMVtsAtbW_h64HlZvFnGyQkfy4zIFsP5eFzs1YkxJNltvbw/s320/Covidtest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>As I opened my fourth box of tissues today after three full weeks of testing positive — the initial infection rebounded 11 days after it was Almost Gone — I decided to assess my time away from the larger world.</p><p>As symptoms waned during Week Three, I live-streamed a Jerry Orbach tribute show from <a href="https://54below.org/">54 Below</a>, a supper club in New York City. I’ve been a fan of his since the mid-‘60s, when I bought the original cast album for “The Fantasticks.” After Orbach ended his memorable Broadway career, his acting lured me to “Law and Order.” He's gone; I'm still watching. </p><p>Also this week, I whined at a nurse on Kaiser’s Advice Line about how long it’s taking to recover. He informed me that it may be two or three more weeks; not to fret just yet. Heartened somewhat, I streamed a show from <a href="https://www.sfjazz.org/">SFJazz</a>, which offers a “<a href="https://athome.sfjazz.org/">Jazz at Home</a>” show every Friday night for just $50 a year. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5wFSvk2VHDD5Df3t9wfm9-8dyIb8B-1j61_ztKqgUTMmgPhuzfFHx5D84ERwlA5V47GaIq4E0cPTXIihZZGU19F2QleBxupHKQ0mWEfOWYb0GMz7x7IRPnVtLS2DW3ptUZGZ3jSzYKMFQFInG3oTpU1bLluo8qAh-fIYji5jQNBymvyCsUBsXmMpwQ/s1813/Banana.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1813" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN5wFSvk2VHDD5Df3t9wfm9-8dyIb8B-1j61_ztKqgUTMmgPhuzfFHx5D84ERwlA5V47GaIq4E0cPTXIihZZGU19F2QleBxupHKQ0mWEfOWYb0GMz7x7IRPnVtLS2DW3ptUZGZ3jSzYKMFQFInG3oTpU1bLluo8qAh-fIYji5jQNBymvyCsUBsXmMpwQ/s320/Banana.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I composed and shot “Still Life with Bananas and Fingertip Pulse Oximeter.” As Birthday Card Manager for my building’s Residents’ Association, I addressed cards to the 10 people here born in February. I sent out my laundry, ordered in groceries and occasionally had food delivered. For the most part, I’ve kept up with my physical therapy exercises, and at 9:30 one evening, I vigorously vacuumed the ceiling vent in the bathroom. </p><p>One afternoon I listened to dynamic tenor <a href="https://www.jonathantetelman.com/">Jonathan Tetelman</a>’s new album “The Great Puccini” and then boldly bought a ticket to The Met’s production of “Madama Butterfly” in May, when the opera will stream to a local theater. (Tetelman is Pinkerton.) Plus, I made future plans for drinks with one friend and dinner with another. (That ticket and the two dates are my Faith in the Future ploys — eventually I WILL test negative and go out again.)</p><p>An unexpected freelance opportunity came my way with no hard deadline, and I turned in a big piece for <a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/">Next Avenue</a> on a new exhibit that opens in April at the <a href="https://www.sfmoma.org/">San Francisco Museum of Modern Art</a>. That article required several phone interviews, which I was able to complete during Week Two in between coughing spells. Full Disclosure: I’m so excited to be working again that I splurged on four new fancy bath towels, on sale online for half price! </p><p>Week Two also brought a flurry of Apartment Therapy, which is how I view spring cleaning and decluttering as long as it does not require the elaborate folding of underwear. Randomly, slowly and only when in the mood, I cleaned out the pantry, tidied up desk cabinet drawers and culled some raggedy cloth napkins. I replenished the barren freezer with new options: fig and walnut bread, grilled salmon fillets and currant scones! I shredded December's paper receipts. I even sewed up a tiny hole in a baggy sweater that serves as a warm layer over my pajama top. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjawnF1gMlP_-oEy-UpMQvfPnmY8eTb8gcV6YZycp7v7xqAaZz8NWK5iooGqNig_8J9iVa1FYriV7ujo9k7Nh8WRw9JNpzID2GeZdzQfr020I5F2KtA8Miz9gVP2DnmrXA306HeRBC4yxq1LbhZkA6gswnTdrLRq-2btr0cpvfNHJyH66MdNNdYAqs44w/s2016/pringles.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjawnF1gMlP_-oEy-UpMQvfPnmY8eTb8gcV6YZycp7v7xqAaZz8NWK5iooGqNig_8J9iVa1FYriV7ujo9k7Nh8WRw9JNpzID2GeZdzQfr020I5F2KtA8Miz9gVP2DnmrXA306HeRBC4yxq1LbhZkA6gswnTdrLRq-2btr0cpvfNHJyH66MdNNdYAqs44w/s320/pringles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>One friend insisted Pringles had eased her path through COVID, so I experimented with that. She later delivered a wonderful meal to complement my snacking. When another friend picked up and delivered a needed birthday gift, she also brought me delicious homemade chicken noodle soup. Neighbors fetched my mail and delivered packages to my door, bags and boxes that held new face masks, extra COVID tests and more Kleenex. On chatty phone calls, I learned about friends’ bouts with the virus, which I caught after three years and 10 months of avoiding it. Eventually, I’ll even forgive the one who told me after a positive test result, her nose ran for two days — and then she tested negative. </p><p>Week One was the hardest. Fatigue was the worst side effect for me, and I slept — a lot. “Obey The Body,” I always say, a lesson learned a long time ago while navigating an entirely different disease. The fatigue wiped me out completely for about four days and then demanded multiple naps in the days to come. When awake, I read. I also watched TV (some good, such as "The Holdovers" and "Maestro;" some silly, such as "House Hunters International," where people moving to exotic locales expect American-style amenities with authentic local "charm"). </p><p>Now and then I pondered how I may have caught COVID. My Best Guess is in the hot tub at my gym. The virus may have been lurking in the vapor I inhaled as I relaxed in the glorious bubbly water — and then it invaded, in spite of the seven COVID shots I've had and my judicious masking all this time. One friend reminded me her doctor had predicted every one of us eventually will get the illness. </p><p>What have I missed since embarking on this unwanted “staycation?” Plenty.</p><p>Seeing a play put on by The Boy’s class, exercising in the pool, enjoying a facial, attending a Pilates demo to determine if it's for me, spending time with the family and settling in on the table for a weekly therapeutic massage. I also had to miss a long-awaited group outing for monologist <a href="https://joshkornbluth.com/">Josh Kornbluth</a>'s performance at Club Fugazi, a birthday party in my building, a dentist appointment, a haircut and a residents' meeting. (Hard to feel too bad about missing a meeting…) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_upKy_Xd34hLHiSMLGh1XogtSlIkbVrXCtGuERwu9EuJ59DxZv1yvyEppMH2ngiHaP2DPtNqormXsKnf4gdm99a26ZjPJKkLAm2SYYZCOzkGynbCRtY6OEZnxNaSKaHehnC4-Ue1SUynp0Wca3_Hop0ZuRMPWEV7dq4VJc3Qit0d-ORn9sJaRjZEZqA/s2016/Hummingbird.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_upKy_Xd34hLHiSMLGh1XogtSlIkbVrXCtGuERwu9EuJ59DxZv1yvyEppMH2ngiHaP2DPtNqormXsKnf4gdm99a26ZjPJKkLAm2SYYZCOzkGynbCRtY6OEZnxNaSKaHehnC4-Ue1SUynp0Wca3_Hop0ZuRMPWEV7dq4VJc3Qit0d-ORn9sJaRjZEZqA/s320/Hummingbird.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Through it all, I’ve had to enlighten concerned friends who worry that after so much time at home, I am climbing the walls. I’m not. I love my nest. I love my routine of playing complex word games each morning. I love sitting on my 13th floor balcony, where I talk to the hummingbirds and my ginkgo tree, tune in to the sounds of the city and try to sort out whether the cactus plants on the table are dying or are already dead. </p><p>A little perspective is in order here. Six months ago, the Centers for Disease Control told <a href="https://www.usnews.com/news/health-news/articles/2023-07-05/more-than-three-quarters-of-americans-16-and-older-have-been-infected-with-covid-cdc">U.S. News and World Report</a> that “while a little more than half of American adults think they've had COVID-19," the reality, according to new government data, is that "about 77.5 percent have been infected at least once.”</p><p>More recently, the World Health Organization reports that from Dec. 11, 2023 through Jan. 7 of this year, new hospitalizations and admissions to an intensive care unit both recorded an overall increase of 40 percent and 13 percent with over 173,000 and 1,900 admissions, respectively. </p><p>Hey, at least I’m not one of them, so I will endeavor to be a patient patient. You — stay well! </p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-39057312391195314682023-12-03T13:16:00.000-08:002023-12-06T11:11:39.235-08:00Making Holiday Plans Is a Must<p>Most large hairy mammals, my friend Sue always says, hibernate in the winter months. “But not people," she adds. "They go crazy in December.” </p><p>For some of us, going crazy is a way to avoid the “red and green blues,” a phrase I came up with some years ago. (See my blog post from Dec. 17, 2019.) Individual pressures we put on ourselves may vary, but sky-high expectations for the holidays — so often unmet — can interfere mightily with holiday cheer. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1woC3Kt5-7ju0W84-d9pIzwCJ8lPbGE8P7TudQeuzOnD8p_e59rkJqYLw2j44v4AzD5yUcQsRJJYdA9zvf1X-wIl3yMyeE6aJq9TdPamn3SEQYFYReBy3ojQDR48LGOALQ1z3hIlAOurdW8copf_LYlg2DKrJJmcDXcaiRtpvgvzb8L78vSZocb46g/s4032/redbowl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz1woC3Kt5-7ju0W84-d9pIzwCJ8lPbGE8P7TudQeuzOnD8p_e59rkJqYLw2j44v4AzD5yUcQsRJJYdA9zvf1X-wIl3yMyeE6aJq9TdPamn3SEQYFYReBy3ojQDR48LGOALQ1z3hIlAOurdW8copf_LYlg2DKrJJmcDXcaiRtpvgvzb8L78vSZocb46g/s320/redbowl.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>“Don’t have expectations,” my friend Ross always said. “Then you won’t be disappointed.” I often countered that with arguments in favor of gleeful anticipation, but he would not be moved. Even knowing, at this age, that taking responsibility for your reaction to anything that occurs is one of the few things we can control does not remove my sense every December that somehow, the holidays could be brighter, shinier, maybe overlaid with a touch of Norman Rockwell.</p><p>Then I remember reading decades ago that Rockwell painted what he wished life — his own life and our collective lives — looked like, aspirations on canvas. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZi9ebDFx0OKcaxx9wppWamUkLKrW2imfWZFoHQKtWm83x8yqf8O52CNEMkt79aJM2t0azkYc__POD_Wlxv1nbKxfdwFlMhEiytdlVV8ughqCPmhCWFvVoJCiN5f1YaguKHi8sB05rQyQs_gyXMiirzRjtqnZ4NHdl5CsKE6QQ5BFLI2gduZvchLmWw/s4032/WhaleOrnament.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhZi9ebDFx0OKcaxx9wppWamUkLKrW2imfWZFoHQKtWm83x8yqf8O52CNEMkt79aJM2t0azkYc__POD_Wlxv1nbKxfdwFlMhEiytdlVV8ughqCPmhCWFvVoJCiN5f1YaguKHi8sB05rQyQs_gyXMiirzRjtqnZ4NHdl5CsKE6QQ5BFLI2gduZvchLmWw/s320/WhaleOrnament.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Another friend, the first long-term breast cancer survivor I met, said her secret to joy year 'round was this: “Cast your anchor into the future.” In other words, make plans, plans that may even live up to any expectations (ill-advised or otherwise) you may have.</p><p>Come December, I make plans, many plans. </p><p>At some point, the family will fill me in on the schedule for Christmas Day, but I take responsibility for filling the rest of the month. For example, I buy tickets. This year, I’m taking The Boy to see the national tour of “The Lion King,” and as I shopped the first date that tickets were available, I scored him an aisle seat! Another day (so grateful for matinees in my dotage), I’ll see “Guys and Dolls” at a local theater with a neighbor. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3P87OUS1McFzGzqGkWlXIlwizK_x8tqbRycrAhyphenhyphenFV0TXOBRl3GKY4wmxAVVeA_AxqzgE0Md2Le1DfrhQHnaoTcPwTe_dCTMOnqDwdXIoZZJsl8t26nlPk11dwkDDanLkXDfZr4KAb91b6hXen0jUdojGAIXXxr2WM8XF8CILcEsWVDVOCi3yiB9KL2w/s3474/presents.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3474" height="279" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3P87OUS1McFzGzqGkWlXIlwizK_x8tqbRycrAhyphenhyphenFV0TXOBRl3GKY4wmxAVVeA_AxqzgE0Md2Le1DfrhQHnaoTcPwTe_dCTMOnqDwdXIoZZJsl8t26nlPk11dwkDDanLkXDfZr4KAb91b6hXen0jUdojGAIXXxr2WM8XF8CILcEsWVDVOCi3yiB9KL2w/s320/presents.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I bought a ticket to the Smuin Ballet’s holiday show, billed as “a little ballet, a little Broadway, and a whole lot of Smuin,” which sounds festive. I’ve already seen the San Francisco Ballet’s production of “The Nutcracker,” and because I love the score, I make a point of playing it each year on the evening that I wrap gifts. Because I also am a huge fan of “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” I am considering springing for a ticket to the Adam Shulman Trio’s performance of Vince Guaraldi’s memorable score at SF Jazz. But Snoopy won’t be there…</p><p>A friend has invited me to a gala showcase at The Circus Center, to watch people who still fully trust their bodies execute astonishing moves. I’ll attend a posh Hanukkah party with lively newspaper people. My Full Moon Cocktail group has lunch reservations at a nice Italian place. My apartment building, aka the Senior Dorm, has numerous events planned: a holiday decorating party, a piano concert by a gifted resident, a casual residents’ gathering, Christmas movie showings and also a lovely catered meal. Plus, I’ve got Something Fun to Do on New Year’s Day. </p><p>In the past, when my living space was a generous 1,700 square feet, I routinely invited 75 close friends to a Winter Solstice party. After losing 1,000 square feet in the move to San Francisco, in many a December I invited The Boy, his cousins and the other local grandma over to help me decorate my apartment. Now, the kids are much older and much busier, and my box of decorations are high up on a closet shelf. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo1RZyU1qK61oZjYqZ8RoPjvoaFWrtBdL8S2-Of8SD__l0GMbwX0GUTtTtRdrVM1xSkubNd0qbCBMh1jvLbr2vEedFqNNAXrqOLDgVEtdMxWipHY2xmpp8IPKOiLIAH0wUXP33wG1t6mzNz57MP8irBsqvJW8Ka4olR87SKi0Wheaoq9y4YzkKrE5ZLQ/s4032/kermit.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo1RZyU1qK61oZjYqZ8RoPjvoaFWrtBdL8S2-Of8SD__l0GMbwX0GUTtTtRdrVM1xSkubNd0qbCBMh1jvLbr2vEedFqNNAXrqOLDgVEtdMxWipHY2xmpp8IPKOiLIAH0wUXP33wG1t6mzNz57MP8irBsqvJW8Ka4olR87SKi0Wheaoq9y4YzkKrE5ZLQ/s320/kermit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>“Used-to-bes” don’t count anymore, so I’m making plans. Next up: I’ll ask someone in the office to get that box down for me. December is here, so it’s time to manage expectations — but also to spruce up the place with some red and green! </p><div><br /></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-52075561260111973032023-10-24T19:31:00.002-07:002023-11-01T14:27:05.216-07:00I Brake for Fresh Fruit <p>All this time, I thought <b><i>I</i> </b>was the Fruit Queen, as I've been obsessed with fresh fruit flavors, varieties and origin stories for well over three decades. Yet now a company called <a href="https://heyfruitqueen.com/">fruitqueen</a> wants to bring me a box of farm-fresh fruit once a week. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPYCQDhbc1gnFQr0j53B-vV3v840ryfxDvEApJyavDnXtJs-z-EQidbcW4a2jQsEpQR9DZl8PYvtz4D0-851XmwejuGOn1P9ZOCFy_z0cGKaSjQVUKSD8EzvykA5HKuWAfsCVZxHHjNEOuizW9RiW6Yi9JIF-i8lPky-nxNxA111VV9neL3KIQe6_kg/s4032/fruitqueen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPYCQDhbc1gnFQr0j53B-vV3v840ryfxDvEApJyavDnXtJs-z-EQidbcW4a2jQsEpQR9DZl8PYvtz4D0-851XmwejuGOn1P9ZOCFy_z0cGKaSjQVUKSD8EzvykA5HKuWAfsCVZxHHjNEOuizW9RiW6Yi9JIF-i8lPky-nxNxA111VV9neL3KIQe6_kg/s320/fruitqueen.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Joyce Zhang, Ben Hartman and Brian Carroll — all veterans of the food industry — seek out seasonal fruits from San Francisco Bay Area farmers and growers, box it up and make it available through pick-up or delivery. </p><p>As they told a reporter at Eater SF, “The goal for us is to focus on things that are really delicious and height of season, but also maybe a little off the beaten track, like a special varietal that’s being grown that we really want to highlight, or a farmer or grower that’s doing something remarkable with their practices and that we think is really cool and want to shout about.”</p><p>Put me down as a yes — for some weeks, anyway — even though they've run off with my title.</p><p>While working as a food writer at a daily newspaper some years ago, I read a syndicated column from the Los Angeles Times by David Karp about the more than 50 types of kiwi in the world. 50! Mind officially blown — I knew of only one at the time, the fuzzy kiwi brown on the outside and green within. I contacted Karp and interviewed him, and he elevated considerably my interest in fruit. </p><p>(To this day, if anyone is selling fresh fruit by the roadside, I am stopping to shop.) </p><p>Karp called himself a pomologist, one who studies and cultivates fruit and often works in the horticulture industry "in research, teaching, and extension positions, developing, breeding, and evaluating new varieties of fruits and nuts." Currently, Karp is a citrus scientist, working as an associate in the Agricultural Experiment Station of the Botany and Plant Sciences Department at the University of California at Riverside.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJesrOA27HDVeNBGiRdzh5noNGmUSbFluwxqlbKWvK2Vu_QBOk-wRurxPZz6Z6SRKVCaH6KYbsgEpLnASjV1nc7vCYTwiR3iFOvo6rtJBubmU3ScZZ71CYSM07dUFl1u3HhmV03h8zB890B0RRibtAzve_ot03vOLEC4DYhO1QhPrSZOeaQGG56vD5sA/s4032/Keitt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJesrOA27HDVeNBGiRdzh5noNGmUSbFluwxqlbKWvK2Vu_QBOk-wRurxPZz6Z6SRKVCaH6KYbsgEpLnASjV1nc7vCYTwiR3iFOvo6rtJBubmU3ScZZ71CYSM07dUFl1u3HhmV03h8zB890B0RRibtAzve_ot03vOLEC4DYhO1QhPrSZOeaQGG56vD5sA/s320/Keitt.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I, the recently deposed Fruit Queen, am merely a consumer and more than a bit of a snob when it comes to mangos (California-grown Keitt are superior to all others), the Honeycrisp apples (thank you, Minnesota) that lured me away forever from my beloved Granny Smiths and Pippins and strawberries (nothing but Chandlers will do, true for me for the past 30 years or so). </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKAk0bMUTqvTiGJ_nH7nbnTsno1vJG0TZZgzwdWKM628Rwte8lrvXlCKQkEFKpwnJCx2iKwyzgoxXrnPwTEV_dT410_orCNuNMoPtYpLUXPliQzy1zvPmDWV8LO4zqqrDgzmVFx_eE8riDmMhMgJsnojjD3BiJ2eH9dbunIpzik6YAqrnqoy7niyMtQ/s4032/chandlerbowl.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKAk0bMUTqvTiGJ_nH7nbnTsno1vJG0TZZgzwdWKM628Rwte8lrvXlCKQkEFKpwnJCx2iKwyzgoxXrnPwTEV_dT410_orCNuNMoPtYpLUXPliQzy1zvPmDWV8LO4zqqrDgzmVFx_eE8riDmMhMgJsnojjD3BiJ2eH9dbunIpzik6YAqrnqoy7niyMtQ/s320/chandlerbowl.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>About those Chandlers — to my mind, the best ones grown locally come from <a href="https://www.swantonberryfarm.com/">Swanton Berry Farm</a>, located in Santa Cruz County about 65 miles south of San Francisco. I stock up in late May and every week all through June, blowing the food budget on these perfect ruby gems, and freezing most of them to support my daily fruit smoothie habit well into October. I've bought them from four different local groceries, from a seasonal food delivery service and yes, from fruitqueen. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwob0mdeUD5LeFSCWXOBazhAeFm9CjpNYCvghutnlNirLZluHJnhyv9PTssq_q_wvz0ycDD471oBeMbD_VKASYSIlHN5U4fKNLlKuVBov_YTO06Bllb5OShyjhKfAHZA6tOTE0IjGqYUEsxoBdIuDBczvDT90niDIxok2W9nM27qjtoi0k-q8nf5lafw/s4032/mangosmoothie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwob0mdeUD5LeFSCWXOBazhAeFm9CjpNYCvghutnlNirLZluHJnhyv9PTssq_q_wvz0ycDD471oBeMbD_VKASYSIlHN5U4fKNLlKuVBov_YTO06Bllb5OShyjhKfAHZA6tOTE0IjGqYUEsxoBdIuDBczvDT90niDIxok2W9nM27qjtoi0k-q8nf5lafw/s320/mangosmoothie.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I've also been to the actual farm, where I loaded berries picked by professionals into the car, bought a piece of Swanton's strawberry cheesecake and then sat with my friend Julia at a picnic table positioned across the road from the magnificent Pacific Ocean. A sublime afternoon! </p><p>Tomatoes command some of my attention, and have for decades. When a restaurant owner near my home in St. Louis County first started serving Real Summer Tomatoes in place of the polyester orange varieties present on so many plates there (and, surprisingly, here in California) year 'round, I asked him why he made the switch. "All summer long, my wife and I eat ripe, juicy tomatoes at home, and we decided one day to serve them at the restaurant too," he told me. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6a3fFhF41SUov3qJXWbBXu0y98Y7IJ_ZrVO3ESOUEK1mAxOMsgsjaV9o-PC6OXmPf066esDyFm9NWpngJP0jxvo8PtjDcdhsCFGTSCB5MC276acUfgyAJ8qK_OkIn_2gC6FlPWrQP_IjvRFbUN0XtveVHmcEr-DJ38YyJ4gpGN-KUUnUMxx5molK_g/s4032/tomatoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6a3fFhF41SUov3qJXWbBXu0y98Y7IJ_ZrVO3ESOUEK1mAxOMsgsjaV9o-PC6OXmPf066esDyFm9NWpngJP0jxvo8PtjDcdhsCFGTSCB5MC276acUfgyAJ8qK_OkIn_2gC6FlPWrQP_IjvRFbUN0XtveVHmcEr-DJ38YyJ4gpGN-KUUnUMxx5molK_g/s320/tomatoes.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>What happened next? For much of July, all of August and even a wee part of September some years, his menu included special dishes featuring the best tomatoes available from local farmers. My friend Edward and I made regular forays to the restaurant during that time for what we called "Tomato Orgies." </p><p>Today, I hold out for heirloom tomatoes. Or I did, until this summer when a single lop-sided specimen cost $10 at a posh local grocery. A friend kindly clued me in on dry-farmed Early Girls, and another friend introduced me to Campari tomatoes. Sometimes, tomatoes with a bit of salt and plenty of pepper are what's for supper. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmsv0s3yExmWwnFnQSGRuG2NxiFgncdbLrIFCRha07dgUdYEh5ibZSML42Hmg8k4be-eit5f8pFfTSE4gg0u48zF-SeQt9TNxkb8uZCKc5E8zrJExcm-25EsgoUb87N0u0cxTxenyPHKAJSAxTXa9_SmkIhNRp0aB_0EFyv6HylnoiKTbb3Vaw23EfVw/s4032/suppertomatoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmsv0s3yExmWwnFnQSGRuG2NxiFgncdbLrIFCRha07dgUdYEh5ibZSML42Hmg8k4be-eit5f8pFfTSE4gg0u48zF-SeQt9TNxkb8uZCKc5E8zrJExcm-25EsgoUb87N0u0cxTxenyPHKAJSAxTXa9_SmkIhNRp0aB_0EFyv6HylnoiKTbb3Vaw23EfVw/s320/suppertomatoes.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Often, Warren pears (so sweet, with no grittiness), Medjool dates, fancy figs of several varieties and fresh berries of all sorts are found in my home. Stone fruits are a favorite, but they were kind of a bummer this summer, and in truth, the best peak-season peach I ever had was from Southern Illinois. (There you are, Gail!) Bing and Rainier cherries are my favorites. Regarding citrus, I am a fan of pretty Cara Cara oranges and the mighty Sumos, Japanese mandarina available from January through April. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilw-F18XxRmrno8y_RAAkyVnPLegGSr0RQsdCNXdHeV9k3uLYEmKuf5-H3GnbeaJtSJBGlY-pKVg0V6003yiiQjxM8p3NrlQ8ctOp83XuDslOOHQPeXcwtIzerrXm2QeVf6-6ljhcf7uF54rJVPz80uCdjtSQkrnxVTs7twLQU_-ncm-xlnkDlJXiqeQ/s4000/sumo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2704" data-original-width="4000" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilw-F18XxRmrno8y_RAAkyVnPLegGSr0RQsdCNXdHeV9k3uLYEmKuf5-H3GnbeaJtSJBGlY-pKVg0V6003yiiQjxM8p3NrlQ8ctOp83XuDslOOHQPeXcwtIzerrXm2QeVf6-6ljhcf7uF54rJVPz80uCdjtSQkrnxVTs7twLQU_-ncm-xlnkDlJXiqeQ/s320/sumo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Seasonal fruits are always the best, even if you're pining for next summer's bounty in the middle of winter! A fall favorite is pumpkin — if it's in a pie, of course. As it happens, this very day a delicious pumpkin pie arrived at my door, made by a friend of a friend, an experienced professional baker who grinds his own spices and thus produces a zippier pumpkin pie than most. I ate a small wedge for breakfast and set aside a piece for later. <div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjED1WF1PncmC1SaIl74cHcLPK0As1jRFxfqCCZg0cwK9AxtEOlP2x2mFn0nwia4Z6ew7t3kD_9JkPdKGpV21Iw8qwTjuiFocMOnlJddwLjNYoK__csbxH6iXCd32ucoHW0ln8raC3jNvNTYe_PdO_vBY28INkB4OyqGwHbZC6yfb0IY0OzJafQDK4ZJw/s4032/PumpkinPie.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjED1WF1PncmC1SaIl74cHcLPK0As1jRFxfqCCZg0cwK9AxtEOlP2x2mFn0nwia4Z6ew7t3kD_9JkPdKGpV21Iw8qwTjuiFocMOnlJddwLjNYoK__csbxH6iXCd32ucoHW0ln8raC3jNvNTYe_PdO_vBY28INkB4OyqGwHbZC6yfb0IY0OzJafQDK4ZJw/s320/PumpkinPie.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div>Then I took the rest of that pie and most of an equally outstanding dark, dense chocolate pie decorated for Halloween to the lounge here in my senior apartment building. I managed to get out and back upstairs before the crowd moved in and the fist fights began! <div><p><br /></p></div></div></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-27776346120983337722023-09-23T13:49:00.002-07:002023-09-23T14:29:44.784-07:00Curated Conversations Worth 1,000 Words<p>When my friend posted this photo on her Facebook page, I immediately imagined how her conversation with Mr. Rogers had gone. I'm certain that he told her that he likes her just the way she is! </p><p>The picture made me think about several conversations I've had through the years that also may have appeared to be one-sided — yet the sense of communication was solid. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIKrVBrJ6wg3iWI7pidUt-RNHTV6MQeBMrRTOwBSAHT7s9NyNMONS2Ro3uWGx71CMQVV0pZXbvWKDYsYPAo6yJxNEYeKX93dfv-Gx7I61m3NuS6QN1pseisIWB4ewzi1zi5tZEzrMyAXsqwKKFcmT61MGVNRd8WBj8QaToaR6IwZUdvvJkL6_GfoxtA/s3689/Megan.Rogers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3689" data-original-width="2054" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidIKrVBrJ6wg3iWI7pidUt-RNHTV6MQeBMrRTOwBSAHT7s9NyNMONS2Ro3uWGx71CMQVV0pZXbvWKDYsYPAo6yJxNEYeKX93dfv-Gx7I61m3NuS6QN1pseisIWB4ewzi1zi5tZEzrMyAXsqwKKFcmT61MGVNRd8WBj8QaToaR6IwZUdvvJkL6_GfoxtA/s320/Megan.Rogers.jpg" width="178" /></a></div><p></p><p>Here I am chatting up a gremlin, on tour promoting its movie. He was a kind of a big deal! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaeXmYwTfi_DZ2xWyOiEvPv9b9jFCFGJhIoPhqnNSWY-Kfhv6D9wmZE3Mq2KT3nlxp7vXXiTYtJxXbuCADdahht8eCpvIKfKxKmrPj7k2IOpdTArTB3lgjwZ6uCljSxQNLWUr68EV_GHJnU-c2XH330is_p4W1OsKpReKQ6vStAiuF47yNpi_3cC-zQ/s2448/Gremlin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaeXmYwTfi_DZ2xWyOiEvPv9b9jFCFGJhIoPhqnNSWY-Kfhv6D9wmZE3Mq2KT3nlxp7vXXiTYtJxXbuCADdahht8eCpvIKfKxKmrPj7k2IOpdTArTB3lgjwZ6uCljSxQNLWUr68EV_GHJnU-c2XH330is_p4W1OsKpReKQ6vStAiuF47yNpi_3cC-zQ/s320/Gremlin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Alfred Hitchcock and I met in <a href="https://www.sonomacounty.com/articles/alfred-hitchcocks-the-birds-filming-locations">Bodega Bay</a>. I could swear we hummed the theme from his TV show, Gounod's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fmeb-f4pthA">"March of a Marionette"</a> — bet you're humming it now! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhja0dXyuPK3Tc8kjMUPt3ceP6uwbuxkJ4Yx2f6G0PDthfeSmmC2yHcaP_mEF2VBFGSXkpTEmopr0wTuQEMadnfFuaPbBdnflQ32bfRNJXXwTR6BcqSyHeVS7_pjAdIFHSXude5dWZJMNqMlUDRtbf7gK1QvpZPeU2FFgMpYGmBnOBHt24aJO_zXwC3ng/s2547/Hitchcock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1700" data-original-width="2547" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhja0dXyuPK3Tc8kjMUPt3ceP6uwbuxkJ4Yx2f6G0PDthfeSmmC2yHcaP_mEF2VBFGSXkpTEmopr0wTuQEMadnfFuaPbBdnflQ32bfRNJXXwTR6BcqSyHeVS7_pjAdIFHSXude5dWZJMNqMlUDRtbf7gK1QvpZPeU2FFgMpYGmBnOBHt24aJO_zXwC3ng/s320/Hitchcock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>In the Bear Valley Visitor Center at the <a href="https://www.nps.gov/pore/index.htm">Point Reyes National Seashore</a> (a treasure beyond compare), I spent some time with this elephant seal. I recalled that I'd once clamored down a rocky cliff to see a herd of the magnificent critters on a <a href="https://whc.unesco.org/en/list/937/">Peninsula Valdes </a>beach in Argentina. Dr. Roger Payne, the esteemed whale scientist I was visiting, helped me back up the cliff — hey, I'm a mermaid, not a mountain goat!<div><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eiiLRcXJ5WxDgu8J1_AYsrddOnccF9zutmBFrpxlQP0NDgxhQh0PN-tZO8rg-I-wrMX9Xac2CUtEqGPkgXPWq5JvVekh9mG6YUC2O4sqWqbM1kVWfOfeqqmcSwGWWXZrQ4qTON4pXIHB9nc5I7ncPDiaEv7yk856Vf39gt-TMZeWKz0SOqT5XJkUnQ/s1280/elephant%20seal.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eiiLRcXJ5WxDgu8J1_AYsrddOnccF9zutmBFrpxlQP0NDgxhQh0PN-tZO8rg-I-wrMX9Xac2CUtEqGPkgXPWq5JvVekh9mG6YUC2O4sqWqbM1kVWfOfeqqmcSwGWWXZrQ4qTON4pXIHB9nc5I7ncPDiaEv7yk856Vf39gt-TMZeWKz0SOqT5XJkUnQ/s320/elephant%20seal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Look who I met on a visit to an exhibit on the brilliant Jim Henson at the <a href="https://www.thecjm.org/">Contemporary Jewish Museum</a>! (No mask required that day for Muppets.) </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZjedUdEmuVNEhPR4S4Cw8qk5cu8sDUcrXjSqcWhJWWxMsEhTPIyy-CwHyIvDZFqZB4K2MX-yNbJWidYIgDKUQ31W4bW6FZzHbet42yR7Rm9STJHEZlKPUhZkqpCvGdUJwiYNz1WloWT_O3iXxroosjAPvGUB3-ZBsu1SFOc3nPU-z2KMJKMtFm5nNw/s2720/MuppetCJM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2309" data-original-width="2720" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmZjedUdEmuVNEhPR4S4Cw8qk5cu8sDUcrXjSqcWhJWWxMsEhTPIyy-CwHyIvDZFqZB4K2MX-yNbJWidYIgDKUQ31W4bW6FZzHbet42yR7Rm9STJHEZlKPUhZkqpCvGdUJwiYNz1WloWT_O3iXxroosjAPvGUB3-ZBsu1SFOc3nPU-z2KMJKMtFm5nNw/s320/MuppetCJM.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>At the <a href="https://schulzmuseum.org/">Charles M. Schulz Museum</a> in Santa Rosa, I hung out with Woodstock, who never says much but is a righteous soul. Later, I visited with his best friend Snoopy for a while. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKKM6tzFzFytwigkPbVCsZexRrDEkkwryxuHM4ts3lV8HadYIod1YnVPREfAcC89CqYn0WWoKSaKU5BSfZCTRfEpZsNUuhAFmTvp9E4PVO4E0USw-pTv9ohvUXvfb1MHjSv-EFdnFGk27HMEg_XwmgazPKrHBzxlgGO00U4379Ux--msumRB6iXooQA/s640/Snoopy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKKM6tzFzFytwigkPbVCsZexRrDEkkwryxuHM4ts3lV8HadYIod1YnVPREfAcC89CqYn0WWoKSaKU5BSfZCTRfEpZsNUuhAFmTvp9E4PVO4E0USw-pTv9ohvUXvfb1MHjSv-EFdnFGk27HMEg_XwmgazPKrHBzxlgGO00U4379Ux--msumRB6iXooQA/s320/Snoopy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>In San Ignacio Lagoon in Baja California, Mexico, my memorable encounter with a <a href="https://whaleopedia.org/baleen-whales/eschrichtiidae-introduction/gray-whale/">gray whale</a> bigger than our boat "spoke" volumes: </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkWhTzUTQJXJW2hzHIoCGFFQaYkx56IhvyZOyoM3TjU8phIgGnjO8XQq0Et2-csa12skUbtAV6-3Qa0RFaCy3A__DP-vrYYtv2C04qZN2SWu1glgJCDPsXBQ9gpkSqdKLrrNISdNjIhRoBn27ISoF5p3cLECUEpM5WGRHJlUnE8ok1Qm7EtZs4RULdw/s1798/39whale.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="1798" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilkWhTzUTQJXJW2hzHIoCGFFQaYkx56IhvyZOyoM3TjU8phIgGnjO8XQq0Et2-csa12skUbtAV6-3Qa0RFaCy3A__DP-vrYYtv2C04qZN2SWu1glgJCDPsXBQ9gpkSqdKLrrNISdNjIhRoBn27ISoF5p3cLECUEpM5WGRHJlUnE8ok1Qm7EtZs4RULdw/s320/39whale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>And on one remarkable day, this nonverbable bond was forged. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnjfxaSjoyxjVI3_PB2wlUnwpz8HlTeNxpACKkvvLbuaYgMdscdIY9kNzR5Po6Q6YR1Kx37qYGsMkGPGBObNyJckn16IyI8ZHThDpZJ8FIfq7-WbEhYXCF32xIQir7fH99ORjij2kuYqO4JsPz3Kj9oLX5TdKPxa0vXmReY0WMOUKit4zwAUEXwh6nA/s2048/MeetingMilo1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnjfxaSjoyxjVI3_PB2wlUnwpz8HlTeNxpACKkvvLbuaYgMdscdIY9kNzR5Po6Q6YR1Kx37qYGsMkGPGBObNyJckn16IyI8ZHThDpZJ8FIfq7-WbEhYXCF32xIQir7fH99ORjij2kuYqO4JsPz3Kj9oLX5TdKPxa0vXmReY0WMOUKit4zwAUEXwh6nA/s320/MeetingMilo1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> Talk, talk, talk — sometimes it's overrated! <br /><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-24071353091001006042023-08-05T10:17:00.001-07:002023-08-05T10:17:24.953-07:00For a Gardener, I Make a Good Writer <p><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Except for a glorious ginkgo tree, a one-time upwelling of California poppies and a Texas Mammillaria cactus named Molly Ivins, I am not known for my green thumb. In fact, when it comes to tending plants, I seem to be all thumbs, and do not excel at what others find so easy.</span></p><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">For Mother’s Day, I boldly treated myself to four succulents (Flapjack, Fiesta, Letizia and one anonymous variety) and three teeny barrel cacti. I bought special cactus potting soil, listened carefully to planting instructions from the woman at the garden shop and made a lovely home for my new plants in a beautiful blue pot that lives on my balcony 13 stories up in San Francisco.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-luC8U6L4fypGTSrKheNgSgF0SLn_DujH1WZ3aecUxKLUiQYa6-W6VDGuB7zL2TOzKg5mQKg3U3hqiNiOcr9_ypX4_BHMxkXwu2UjjH8H6gR_xEKDSvXW1UNOUKV7w8kWAYLcSL7ryTfAjtkPpjsQ_CydpBMLWUwfU3HBA5GAtM_PcxzOp_vWceAMg/s4032/Succulent1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif-luC8U6L4fypGTSrKheNgSgF0SLn_DujH1WZ3aecUxKLUiQYa6-W6VDGuB7zL2TOzKg5mQKg3U3hqiNiOcr9_ypX4_BHMxkXwu2UjjH8H6gR_xEKDSvXW1UNOUKV7w8kWAYLcSL7ryTfAjtkPpjsQ_CydpBMLWUwfU3HBA5GAtM_PcxzOp_vWceAMg/s320/Succulent1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We were all very happy together for seven weeks or so, when I noticed weird little black spots on the plants. It was a busy time for me, and I decided “watchful waiting” was the lazy course I’d take. I waited. I watched. Then little white spots appeared on some of the succulents.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Ten days ago, my son diagnosed the white spots as aphids. He did a lot of research and showed me magnified photos of the pests. (Ewwww…) He also proposed some options, which included everything from cleaning the plants with soap to learning to live with aphids as part of the natural world to moving the pot to the other end of the balcony where I couldn’t see it and so would fret less. </p><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkauf2M_QGl-wyk8ZXb60N4KZXqqBscOPRHdx6iBH-JEc4XIbzJNTsR_3x7W0zDcoo2i2GarlB0MnRNLMCDmG9JcFwwCSMijuyOAPsqu89F5MyDfKIo_5IHtSSua82I7Auy1bQEkT_qgzIBMapduESwAt4jWabG1bDtCylUYDbo8BE-Oq4X8bRLshVw/s4032/Succulent2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqkauf2M_QGl-wyk8ZXb60N4KZXqqBscOPRHdx6iBH-JEc4XIbzJNTsR_3x7W0zDcoo2i2GarlB0MnRNLMCDmG9JcFwwCSMijuyOAPsqu89F5MyDfKIo_5IHtSSua82I7Auy1bQEkT_qgzIBMapduESwAt4jWabG1bDtCylUYDbo8BE-Oq4X8bRLshVw/s320/Succulent2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">I did further research. “Spray the plants with soapy water,” one friend said. (I don’t own a spray bottle.) “Aim a forceful stream of water at the plants,” counseled one website. (I don’t own a hose and the balcony has no faucet.) “Throw them all out,” said one wag who has no tolerance for tending plants. (I considered it.)</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">One website said the black spots might be from too much sun — or too little. An expert at the garden shop, reached by phone, suggested that the high winds San Francisco often experiences may have stressed out my succulents, and that made them easy targets for aphids. He offered to sell me a container of 750 ladybugs (!), as they eat aphids. When I asked if the ladybugs might not all fly away home when released from the container, he admitted that was a possibility.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Next I read that aphids hate the smell of banana peels. (Was this an insight generated during a focus group?) I peeled a banana, made a fruit smoothie for myself and then draped the peels atop the soil in the pot. Two days later, the peels were black and the plants looked worse. I donned my gardening gloves (surprise— I own a pair!) and dumped everything in the compost except the barrel cactus triplets.</p><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFmSRmbyan7fKx-GJeqCPmdTC_ccI1jeV-NuSe3TW4HY751TBacDvdzjIkCf-pGbIow9Z2MbiSOga32aGAHqskC8dVfHa7Q_5znJKWc0GofJaN0KLiMByIeQdD7TRKTx1FlVmpw6tikQ_O2JvyLBq1_ui74X0AlS4lfbHtfiEORP7smNr5hH16WJ3yQ/s2818/succeulent3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2818" data-original-width="2193" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFmSRmbyan7fKx-GJeqCPmdTC_ccI1jeV-NuSe3TW4HY751TBacDvdzjIkCf-pGbIow9Z2MbiSOga32aGAHqskC8dVfHa7Q_5znJKWc0GofJaN0KLiMByIeQdD7TRKTx1FlVmpw6tikQ_O2JvyLBq1_ui74X0AlS4lfbHtfiEORP7smNr5hH16WJ3yQ/s320/succeulent3.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Maybe I imagined it, but when I popped the cacti into a cheap plastic pot of their own, I thought I heard them sigh with relief. Four days later, all three are bigger — taller and wider. I’ve bought them a pretty pot that's slightly bigger, but it may not do the job for long. I just read that barrel cacti can grow up to 3 feet tall. Oh, and their lifespan is 50-100 years!</p><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZou7edPDaWRXHiytZoExqfZf4qwndGE6ImKVNz8MDNzd4xsPZ6m-Y7dsPNx5pDFcGB8hjpKJwAh6r0T0IIwuflVu4-xd2vu4Nck7kUso-9ydDbr0WnAv24S2dEic9K-oU4mo6LoG5Mci5wadxhyhtMF_MKy4rzmb4iFW5eBEdf6v91pvuRXABdMkoCA/s3232/Succulent4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3232" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZou7edPDaWRXHiytZoExqfZf4qwndGE6ImKVNz8MDNzd4xsPZ6m-Y7dsPNx5pDFcGB8hjpKJwAh6r0T0IIwuflVu4-xd2vu4Nck7kUso-9ydDbr0WnAv24S2dEic9K-oU4mo6LoG5Mci5wadxhyhtMF_MKy4rzmb4iFW5eBEdf6v91pvuRXABdMkoCA/s320/Succulent4.jpg" width="299" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Now my pretty blue pot is empty once again. When I first got it, I planted geraniums, which were so joyful and seemed so happy on the balcony. Over time, the geraniums got a fungus. I bought a special spray at the garden shop and tried gently wiping each leaf, top and bottom. I was patient for maybe two days, at which point I decided life is too short to sit around cleaning geranium leaves. I tossed the plants and started over. Alas, fungus arrived soon after, and I had to throw out those plants too.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSpaZMyFMG9ExCzvkuS2eHQ118z1VrhyHN0GTvz4RT5VJNzi00EYCfZ-YcxQf-4Tt3Q2bELvnPePkLOBGMrj4q6drPbWeIzn68LM74hxvzMXjGH8VpebNqQBM0pNhYN92R7NlI374JGjFk2vDYfKLzwFMvJFyxDk38ycrEB92oiEBPT1ONCaFeHKuA6g/s3024/geran1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="3024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSpaZMyFMG9ExCzvkuS2eHQ118z1VrhyHN0GTvz4RT5VJNzi00EYCfZ-YcxQf-4Tt3Q2bELvnPePkLOBGMrj4q6drPbWeIzn68LM74hxvzMXjGH8VpebNqQBM0pNhYN92R7NlI374JGjFk2vDYfKLzwFMvJFyxDk38ycrEB92oiEBPT1ONCaFeHKuA6g/s320/geran1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-align: left;">Shortly after, I was on the verge of tossing some stringy poppy plants I’d started from seed in a tin pot. (It was a gift; I had to try it.) Instead, I moved the poppies to the really big pot that holds my ginkgo tree. Soon, I had 2-foot tall poppies! When they faded, I thanked the ginkgo for being such a good host, pulled out the poppies and moved on.</span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8H6Gbn4-TICrir9w_DHCbcgadXg4Yr99Vb5vbCiPAMWw3G_97WAbq_11hjcby1X5F_2J338mIXDU7n9PVxpB-u-n-WpkFy1y17JGIBJosbFpAlqrVHm2kl6e3Gzn56_mv-PbPxuvJCpOl1D1B3-6mSPpDLAOMNYuVHPLbn9W4TK0V1lv6vqowCLZLHg/s4032/poppies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8H6Gbn4-TICrir9w_DHCbcgadXg4Yr99Vb5vbCiPAMWw3G_97WAbq_11hjcby1X5F_2J338mIXDU7n9PVxpB-u-n-WpkFy1y17JGIBJosbFpAlqrVHm2kl6e3Gzn56_mv-PbPxuvJCpOl1D1B3-6mSPpDLAOMNYuVHPLbn9W4TK0V1lv6vqowCLZLHg/s320/poppies.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">For now, I've<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> put the pot in the corner of the balcony. I turned it upside down, because a few months ago, two pigeons were arguing out there over who would build a nest inside the pot and take up residence. One had even brought some building supplies. I yelled at the pigeons, dumped out the pot and flipped it over.</span></p><div><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Even though I'd rejected his offer to sell me 750 ladybugs (wait — who counts them?), the guy at the garden shop told me that barrel cacti stand up to wind and they thrive on being ignored. Good, because this may be may be my last attempt at caring for plants. If so, I guess I’ll have to find another hobby. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;">Don’t suggest I do crafts — the only thing I can make is paragraphs. </p></div><span style="color: #888888;"><span class="gmail_signature_prefix">--</span><br /><div class="gmail_signature" data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><br style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></span>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-51880362021009028112023-05-22T18:32:00.047-07:002023-05-23T05:56:57.012-07:00A Delightful Career: Talking to Strangers<p>Everyone has a story — several of them, usually. I know this because I’ve been interviewing people ever since I was a reporter for the Plymouth Rock, my junior high school newspaper, some 50 years ago. Here’s a photo of the staff. (That's me in the middle!)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0dePQ50SYIy65Ft1BVKUplpk6mabg7L1aBM3lm-YpudL1DXut6-gdbR5uIcXl8nLbpfQmkzh9mvVVxTb-hmZRzcRQWxpW9WMtsSvD4RiDCrfTUgaxEG1DA96q8Yj--sbHLXB94isdYKEZws6FvHgu49vXqI_ddHBU9xreynvkY-k_BbezAEoPxw/s705/PlymouthRock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="705" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0dePQ50SYIy65Ft1BVKUplpk6mabg7L1aBM3lm-YpudL1DXut6-gdbR5uIcXl8nLbpfQmkzh9mvVVxTb-hmZRzcRQWxpW9WMtsSvD4RiDCrfTUgaxEG1DA96q8Yj--sbHLXB94isdYKEZws6FvHgu49vXqI_ddHBU9xreynvkY-k_BbezAEoPxw/s320/PlymouthRock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Just this morning, I interviewed the founder of a handful of circus schools who still performs at 52, a sculptor who has worked on more than 70 large-scale public art projects across the country and an artist who has taught painting for over 30 years. Tomorrow, I’m interviewing another painter, a cheesemaker and a farmer who teaches the homesteading arts.</p><p>In between, I’ve interviewed such luminaries as Robert Bakker, Honi Coles, Tim Curry, Harvey Fierstein, Betty Friedan, Savion Glover, Vadim Gluzman, Jane Goodall, Ricky Jay, Erica Jong, Josh Kornbluth, Rocco Landesman, Judith Lasater, Steve Leatherwood, Peter Max, Donna McKechnie, Roger Payne, Louise Penny, George Plimpton, Phil Rosenthal, George Schaller, Gloria Steinem, Twyla Tharp, Tommy Tune, Diana Vreeland, Hal Whitehead and Alex Winter. </p><p>For countless articles on as many topics, I've listened to the stories of home cooks, Broadway stars, whale scientists, Holocaust survivors, book authors, dancers, medical researchers, famous chefs, the founder of Allbirds shoes, body builder title-holders, world-class musicians, healthcare professionals, fiber artists and the fellow who designed the title character for “Gremlins.” </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjzZr6X1PAPoaKKmx3SCFR1t5AoQVjWpCuCaX87NYhBulH0sHwFoVNyvBw9KsNJw_j7X_eJnK5-33f4KPQZ-UNC5fursIYmvZtcdps13dF8d8OFuW2i6rykDwq4KJmpi3NJkDJbpiULQAXqP8sQD-YDA7YUPNi0VZxbzAJNJV9NkmZyizWV6TUVA/s2076/Gremlins2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1646" data-original-width="2076" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjzZr6X1PAPoaKKmx3SCFR1t5AoQVjWpCuCaX87NYhBulH0sHwFoVNyvBw9KsNJw_j7X_eJnK5-33f4KPQZ-UNC5fursIYmvZtcdps13dF8d8OFuW2i6rykDwq4KJmpi3NJkDJbpiULQAXqP8sQD-YDA7YUPNi0VZxbzAJNJV9NkmZyizWV6TUVA/s320/Gremlins2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I’ve taken notes in interviews with museum curators, TV stars, an astrophysicist, poets, a community activist, playwrights, a 99-year-old piano student, cancer survivors, national park rangers, many a psychologist, yoga instructors (on land and in water), a glass blower, a New York producer, bar owners, chocolate manufacturers, a monologist, restaurant owners, massage therapists and a Buddhist nun. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKZvoKjgGOh20lNfpCKdWZa4q0s0rZe2BPS5KFt_t3rc9z6dTrdzVLC2N8MCh6mKnktBJf5Zp5SLoEMFJswTH2tJOGwU38B1SaEG75CKqLXh_1hiNNN3o1gIav_80eVOPZukQl1Vn_kPxb0kx42qDmEzmf5vGl7Lr3qKzqjhm3p1WSmUHqcP-AZtI/s3583/VenerableTenzin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2269" data-original-width="3583" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKZvoKjgGOh20lNfpCKdWZa4q0s0rZe2BPS5KFt_t3rc9z6dTrdzVLC2N8MCh6mKnktBJf5Zp5SLoEMFJswTH2tJOGwU38B1SaEG75CKqLXh_1hiNNN3o1gIav_80eVOPZukQl1Vn_kPxb0kx42qDmEzmf5vGl7Lr3qKzqjhm3p1WSmUHqcP-AZtI/s320/VenerableTenzin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Because I like people — and because I hold informal conversations, rather than conduct structured interviews — most of these encounters have been great fun. Sometimes, the relationships my subjects and I establish last beyond the allotted time spent on the interview. </p><p>After a rowdy interview over lunch, Joel Grey invited me to see him in “Cabaret” a second time and then join him for dinner. Weeks later, he mailed ginkgo leaves he collected for me in Central Park. After my phone interview with Lily Tomlin, she suggested we meet for a quick hug later in the parking lot at the venue where she was speaking. And as a splendid afternoon with Jerry Mathers wound down, the photographer and I invited him to come back to the newsroom with us so our co-workers could meet The Beaver. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpGKDqkS6KnO2Nee6dk9g3eH0wf-PSJRXJJobPqUP6dTvQA7ZCSBHB69bX51TIBXbJGsoBCciuYSJ5V9WeeDgYu8sjwmskGNdEr39YUvzNhHd4nUMLOzMmRZAtqXolc2NyPQMnWrpM85mB6tzVeox8b_ImR0v0QZN7Gb-U4LyclGr5FFcYP_0bsw/s3391/TheBeaver.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2708" data-original-width="3391" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvpGKDqkS6KnO2Nee6dk9g3eH0wf-PSJRXJJobPqUP6dTvQA7ZCSBHB69bX51TIBXbJGsoBCciuYSJ5V9WeeDgYu8sjwmskGNdEr39YUvzNhHd4nUMLOzMmRZAtqXolc2NyPQMnWrpM85mB6tzVeox8b_ImR0v0QZN7Gb-U4LyclGr5FFcYP_0bsw/s320/TheBeaver.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Not every interview has gone smoothly. One famous dancer responded to every question I asked with just one or two words, and declined to elaborate on any topic. When an interview with a TV star from a popular show revealed his side hustle was as a slum landlord — and he was proud of that — I cut the interview short. Another conversation ended abruptly after 14 minutes, because that was all the time the famous fellow’s agent said he could spare. (I got a story out of it anyway!)</p><p>Sometimes, people who agree to be interviewed tell me tales they should keep to themselves, and sometimes, when I have reported what they said, they’ve tried to get me fired. (They have failed.) A haughty restaurant owner told me that he didn’t want customers 40 or older in his place because “they don’t know anything about food.” Another owner revealed he offered different menus to people he recognized from those menus handed to strangers.</p><p>Most of my interviews involve setting up mutually convenient times to talk, but editors have sent me to malls, community events and even street corners to pester unsuspecting members of the public with questions. I’ve polled people on whether it’s okay to wear white after Labor Day, whether they do or do not watch political conventions on television (and why) and whether they prefer plastic shopping bags or paper. Talking to strangers has been part of my job for a long time — no wonder I do it all the time, even when I'm not working. </p><p>At some point over the years, I came up with the perfect final question for many an interview, one that sometimes reframes much of what came before and often garners unexpected gems. I ask: “What else would you like for me to know?” </p><p>I know this: I learn so very much as I listen to people’s stories, and then I have the privilege of writing articles about their jobs, their lives, their hopes and dreams. What a gift! Gotta run now — it’s time to prep for the first of tomorrow’s interviews. </p><p> </p><div><br /></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-32314010212529644402023-04-18T11:30:00.028-07:002023-06-10T12:12:04.075-07:00Is This a Happy Cactus? <p> UPDATE: Confidence boosted by success with Molly, I've branched out (sorry) and now am tending to Flapjack, Fiesta, Letizia, three teeny Barrel cacti and one anonymous being. (Enlighten me if you know.) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn_ZvdPDijsZu8-mANKV9MGsoxYf9Vdv1fHMJvismotWZ8T8i22oabgewUgYrbLt3RIgqIIlHGzpQUXzcAc7C2Ci_Ad8Cpwc0LzNNVtKpiGUb2M8CNACxiMKvQGmpfpmJDZNT6vU5Lo2ghTJ1-qeW_mXp_3Nr7LVuE2KiMESefj6SrgLmZoWPiuU/s4032/Succulents.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtn_ZvdPDijsZu8-mANKV9MGsoxYf9Vdv1fHMJvismotWZ8T8i22oabgewUgYrbLt3RIgqIIlHGzpQUXzcAc7C2Ci_Ad8Cpwc0LzNNVtKpiGUb2M8CNACxiMKvQGmpfpmJDZNT6vU5Lo2ghTJ1-qeW_mXp_3Nr7LVuE2KiMESefj6SrgLmZoWPiuU/s320/Succulents.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>So far, so good! Fiesta has three orange blooms, the wee barrel cacti are thrilled to be out of their tiny pot, Flapjack is amazing and I send Molly out on the balcony for playdates. Stay tuned. </p><p><b>Original Post: </b></p><p>Meet my Texas Nipple Cactus, whose Latin name is <i>Mammillaria prolifera</i>. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJe54XLZVnX8_3XNOc9PzgH160i4iY8kJ9AJYnwIPZ52os6zKqcKhOXFHZ3z8eJZ6-tUCsD8_Si5ZNlZI2HP65k-IJnCd-fmPPdwMY1-MN3v_9FRJAfo2BqNJxMlY9I_7uVWrX-x3OzWBfeGe-BWftGt6vhbKTqlMQrdkd35QRI7KfgemuVgSEWnc/s4032/Molly2023.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJe54XLZVnX8_3XNOc9PzgH160i4iY8kJ9AJYnwIPZ52os6zKqcKhOXFHZ3z8eJZ6-tUCsD8_Si5ZNlZI2HP65k-IJnCd-fmPPdwMY1-MN3v_9FRJAfo2BqNJxMlY9I_7uVWrX-x3OzWBfeGe-BWftGt6vhbKTqlMQrdkd35QRI7KfgemuVgSEWnc/s320/Molly2023.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I call her <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molly_Ivins">Molly Ivins</a>, because like that extraordinary journalist who made quite a reputation for herself writing about the Texas legislature, my cactus is prickly.</p><p>Except for the hardy 3.5’ tall ginkgo tree that lives in a giant pot on my balcony, Molly is my only plant. At one time, I had red geraniums blooming in a lovely blue pot on that same balcony, until three different plants got some nasty fungus that required I treat each leaf with a toxic substance every day.</p><p>Life is too short! </p><p>For a time, I also had a vigorous jade plant — a gift from a neighbor when I moved in — but it grew too big and heavy for me to lift, and I could no longer dump the rain out of its saucer. I’d been told that jade plants didn’t like to sit in standing water. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsdvVmms6-maEnC3apl3_2qi0rDgnQiZdS_UyHPwDXF6Bi1cTyTlXyo-B1Er_LtbCIl0lq6_xhrc1qwMMtKUnL3fyNFXQLUM-NZImwTBXsupx8eznSGjhIe0zPd_idltflpwFcp6RFWdijNZqM5T9JwWSP42O82Kzs-tuGXklwpjjOQfxF6Er00M/s4032/Molly2021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsdvVmms6-maEnC3apl3_2qi0rDgnQiZdS_UyHPwDXF6Bi1cTyTlXyo-B1Er_LtbCIl0lq6_xhrc1qwMMtKUnL3fyNFXQLUM-NZImwTBXsupx8eznSGjhIe0zPd_idltflpwFcp6RFWdijNZqM5T9JwWSP42O82Kzs-tuGXklwpjjOQfxF6Er00M/s320/Molly2021.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>I’d also been told it was impossible to kill them, even if I didn’t dump the rainwater, but because I didn’t want to be the first person ever to do in a jade plant, I donated it to the office staff In my building, and it now lives on a first-floor patio with another jade plant. </p><p>So it’s just Molly and me, which is fine, because I’m more of a fauna person than a flora person. I’ve been watching whales in the wild since 1982, and I once hugged a friendly gray whale in San Ignacio Lagoon. In the Galapagos Islands, I snorkeled with reef sharks. And I’ve swum with rays off Hawaii’s Big Island. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYxjtCnhC-iQm1JuGlKM8QkMUmLK3CLllVsG_K3D6vzgV2-8MtfbQEjF6R0Oeo9KRmRt7uFOJmRD1x_Jq7i4ExkY3TOxQNVAuYQ7nixtGb6SBzR5ngr5A3jv1OVxtPwtneNg0gEH5OMCinP2sjIYOuTUmusnNwJqr6JwE3_PaWOfdvW6hLTxFr-g/s1798/39whale.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1102" data-original-width="1798" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHYxjtCnhC-iQm1JuGlKM8QkMUmLK3CLllVsG_K3D6vzgV2-8MtfbQEjF6R0Oeo9KRmRt7uFOJmRD1x_Jq7i4ExkY3TOxQNVAuYQ7nixtGb6SBzR5ngr5A3jv1OVxtPwtneNg0gEH5OMCinP2sjIYOuTUmusnNwJqr6JwE3_PaWOfdvW6hLTxFr-g/s320/39whale.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>At a zoo, I had the great privilege of giving a baby elephant his first solid food — a banana. Elsewhere at that zoo, I handed a blind, elderly rhino a piece of lettuce and offered a giraffe a slice of bread. Another joyous day, I petted a baby manatee in a tank in Orlando. Also, I’ve loved and nurtured four cats, three dogs and three parakeets. </p><p>In contrast, taking care of a Texas Nipple Cactus should be easy, but I fret about whether I’m doing a good job. </p><p>Molly had a rough start. I paid $5 for her in 2016, after my friend who owns <a href="https://www.facebook.com/avenuesdrygoods">Avenues Dry Goods</a>, a great shop in San Francisco’s Outer Sunset, found the plant lying on its side in a gutter. She brought it into her shop, where I was up for an impulse buy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-eejTkAPA9rTWqz3xArTupDdCK6_Ju-mDF3UH_px__xPop5nr9W1jAn67RqW0m6VRjkaoKJsCak_DjxCfS38OEBgn1o4cTv_EdIVLHkAWwsaqmMwU6IJL72c1Y_EwVXGskHMWmgfdvkBEUbKB_0e7vTNtdGjAVDjDmVIKoF3hhgLb_cR4T3zru0/s4032/Molly1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM-eejTkAPA9rTWqz3xArTupDdCK6_Ju-mDF3UH_px__xPop5nr9W1jAn67RqW0m6VRjkaoKJsCak_DjxCfS38OEBgn1o4cTv_EdIVLHkAWwsaqmMwU6IJL72c1Y_EwVXGskHMWmgfdvkBEUbKB_0e7vTNtdGjAVDjDmVIKoF3hhgLb_cR4T3zru0/s320/Molly1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>“Just take it,” my friend said, but I wanted to be supportive of the new store. I paid and brought the cactus home, placed it on my desk and researched cacti. </p><p>Yikes — there are 1,500 different species! At last, along with a photo that looked just like my plant, I found this: </p><p>“A Texas Nipple Cactus is a low-growing cactus that forms a clump of dark green, globose or cylindrical stems with conic to cylindrical tubercles with clusters of spines at the tip. The stems are up to 3.6” tall and 2.8” in diameter. </p><p>"Each areole bears 25 to 40 radial and 5 to 12 central spines. The radial spines are hair-like, white or yellow, and up to 0.5” long, while the central spines are needle-like, 0.4” long, and white, yellow to reddish with a darker tip.</p><p>“Flowers appear in spring. They are yellowish-white, cream-colored, or pinkish-yellow with brownish midrib and up to 0.8 inches” in diameter. Fruits are scarlet, club-shaped to cylindrical, and up to 0.8” long." </p><p>Flowers? Haven’t seen a single one, but on three occasions, Molly has startled me with “fruits” that resemble teensy chili peppers. They are beautiful! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Gb3U_Z1XqHJzIMLiuSkawR4NjLskD2RR6OxVLa1P98vZcGYBtRedyIQQT30QRAwpR42Y8egBm1AwKe9HL13RczzP_e1XpJfRNgdWSwc6Yvk67WFmyhcDb4Y8xc2U6o9RdUjQSYZQV4sRIhgBqLPdQWZLOtTR2O8dKyafz_ZEZWaT-AKqRft-U0c/s3264/molly2018.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Gb3U_Z1XqHJzIMLiuSkawR4NjLskD2RR6OxVLa1P98vZcGYBtRedyIQQT30QRAwpR42Y8egBm1AwKe9HL13RczzP_e1XpJfRNgdWSwc6Yvk67WFmyhcDb4Y8xc2U6o9RdUjQSYZQV4sRIhgBqLPdQWZLOtTR2O8dKyafz_ZEZWaT-AKqRft-U0c/s320/molly2018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I also unearthed this tidbit: "<i>Mammillaria</i> is one of the largest genera in the cactus family, with currently 200 known species and varieties recognized. Most of them are native to Mexico, but some come from the southwest U.S., the Caribbean, Colombia, Venezuela, Guatemala and Honduras." </p><p>At some point, I wondered whether Molly might enjoy a larger pot, so I drove her to a hardware store with a gardening department. A clerk there told me cacti like to be pot-bound, but mine probably did need food. She offered to sell me a 5-pound bag. </p><p>I explained that Molly was an only plant, with no siblings. The clerk laughed, and said she would pop Molly out of the pot, mix some food in the soil and water the cactus, all for free. Grateful, I bought a pretty red pot. That was pre-Covid, and I now fret that Molly may be hungry again. </p><p>That said, she is taller than ever. (See top photo.) I believe the sun gets credit for that. As much as I enjoy her presence on my desk, keeping me company as I write, it’s clear my little Texas Nipple Cactus likes a sunnier spot, so often I put her on the floor in front of the sliding glass door to my west-facing balcony. When the wind in San Francisco is calm (we get a lot of gusty days), I let her bask in the sunshine outside, often sharing space with the ginkgo. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEMstJap-M1twCoDZDPwxTZBen6t8uKyWK5V8NwsgBoySHCkZSkddMpOa6eXRYe2M5jKvIS_6Zodf3piauvxGsNknSQqYewgVTqeDJPfU6hbPjkaIajOSZRjQkwfea0GGhpgi0-VfMRUvIFmmHzbgtufDmC_jAkFppBCPdpZhn17B3FhnLJgap7w/s4023/M&G.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4023" data-original-width="2591" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEMstJap-M1twCoDZDPwxTZBen6t8uKyWK5V8NwsgBoySHCkZSkddMpOa6eXRYe2M5jKvIS_6Zodf3piauvxGsNknSQqYewgVTqeDJPfU6hbPjkaIajOSZRjQkwfea0GGhpgi0-VfMRUvIFmmHzbgtufDmC_jAkFppBCPdpZhn17B3FhnLJgap7w/s320/M&G.jpg" width="206" /></a></div><p>Still, I think another trip to the gardening experts might be in order soon! I want Molly Ivins to be a happy cactus. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-50702456353925916202023-02-19T13:59:00.001-08:002023-02-19T14:53:25.970-08:00Food, Glorious Food! <p>Though my “junior" one-bedroom penthouse apartment is small, my 13-by-6-foot balcony that faces due west affords a fine view of the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge — but still, something crucial has been missing. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI94dqLI_5s599FHyYIdFYSXWpQ9A-5H0naLfWtaGMbvGuEnW7Hb9Z2yi5HxNSBwce40VN9SIJkfRhMWV3TavmaVeILOjumlPRR-Jspq5S5buyjmGRqiYtLk9ZKR65WIcoc2Ej8i6pNcrzoqQVkmQHQqQ4bTknZuNA3vBAnDRuwcFqir5omD5S3bc/s1280/GGBridge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI94dqLI_5s599FHyYIdFYSXWpQ9A-5H0naLfWtaGMbvGuEnW7Hb9Z2yi5HxNSBwce40VN9SIJkfRhMWV3TavmaVeILOjumlPRR-Jspq5S5buyjmGRqiYtLk9ZKR65WIcoc2Ej8i6pNcrzoqQVkmQHQqQ4bTknZuNA3vBAnDRuwcFqir5omD5S3bc/s320/GGBridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>After removing an English muffin from my trusty toaster oven one morning, I realized exactly what was lacking — cooking aromas, the soul-satisfying ambience provided when the stovetop or the full-size oven have spent hours simmering or baking significant food.</p><p>To get that, I would have to cook. I can cook, but I don’t want to. </p><p>I’d prefer to use the toaster oven to reheat a perfectly grilled piece of salmon from the posh grocery, a favorite pasta from a nearby restaurant or a turkey sandwich with Brie from the bakery up the street. Then, I get out my Good China, a beloved pattern, bought for me by my Five Favorite Female Friends so long ago that even the china replacement companies have none of it left. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqR9ZvSBxddixaL19ZaDkyqjou32X3t_8j8kIvTU2SOT-5MuSsmkvzLosEOdfkg2CFy0Lrk-kreEppTS0xoIRkWyadfXhfQxEcvhmFXkVlcJlP-KhHxNIX_lovGJGXAjf0pOsq7yoIzGwwkHmbc62dDzetR1dN6Notoc8SAMjSL3e1Lww4LjhbDQ/s2016/IMG_4335.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDqR9ZvSBxddixaL19ZaDkyqjou32X3t_8j8kIvTU2SOT-5MuSsmkvzLosEOdfkg2CFy0Lrk-kreEppTS0xoIRkWyadfXhfQxEcvhmFXkVlcJlP-KhHxNIX_lovGJGXAjf0pOsq7yoIzGwwkHmbc62dDzetR1dN6Notoc8SAMjSL3e1Lww4LjhbDQ/s320/IMG_4335.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>I always enjoy tasty meals on my special plates, but the cooking aromas are fleeting. </p><p>Skeptically, I regarded my six-quart slow cooker, well over 20 years old and Really Heavy, as it sat sorely in need of dusting on the bottom shelf of my kitchen cart. Ugh. Then I had an idea: Buy a new, smaller slow cooker, one that wouldn’t make so much food at once that you have to eat the same thing for four days or freeze portions that never again will taste as appealing as the first (or even second) time on a plate. </p><p>Bonus: Everybody else is buying Instant Pots and airfryers now, so slow cookers are cheap! I found a three-quart model of a name brand for $35 at a nearby hardware store. Though thousands of slow cooker recipes are online, I also bought Linda Larsen’s “The Complete Slow Cooking for Two,” to supplement my original cookbook from 2001. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUh4RfNerHR5TkrM1kMYIzAU4wSxBoxatLCSp5ces6FahgH9TdOsJ3xcM7Qd3ezQY7aULMbkjYtyRuewS68dsA-_c4n3sO0sGRI_4DmKu7sl2G-z5_cKdhPsIHrLQK8txABUtfkfxs1loVzJxeEyrv58M74ooaSAdoOvWC8ODZGI2WHOicTbrtnVs/s2016/cookbooks.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUh4RfNerHR5TkrM1kMYIzAU4wSxBoxatLCSp5ces6FahgH9TdOsJ3xcM7Qd3ezQY7aULMbkjYtyRuewS68dsA-_c4n3sO0sGRI_4DmKu7sl2G-z5_cKdhPsIHrLQK8txABUtfkfxs1loVzJxeEyrv58M74ooaSAdoOvWC8ODZGI2WHOicTbrtnVs/s320/cookbooks.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Next, I grabbed a flashlight and a magnifying glass so I could read the miniscule, near-transparent expiration dates on my spice jars and replace those that certainly were short on flavor. (Expect to need a bank loan to do that. Yikes!) Then I spent more money on ingredients at the grocery, assembled a potentially ideal recipe for white chicken chili from three under consideration and — cooked! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivItO29DcPY8KW3x8KmsxbamcWIO-S_SNZZ27om73JGxx0gAHU2DmVL2X1QDFgrEQDBDI2PtN52MPhg46gtcZaNk-l_cL3MrpG4m83bCGmIwtyJ2bJl1DhKZp53NZRPZ2a0i7ioTgMMh7K0gPzJDrLBz4qpHvShJjbm5RiVr5VenUGo6f7BU5KSv4/s2016/IMG_4295.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivItO29DcPY8KW3x8KmsxbamcWIO-S_SNZZ27om73JGxx0gAHU2DmVL2X1QDFgrEQDBDI2PtN52MPhg46gtcZaNk-l_cL3MrpG4m83bCGmIwtyJ2bJl1DhKZp53NZRPZ2a0i7ioTgMMh7K0gPzJDrLBz4qpHvShJjbm5RiVr5VenUGo6f7BU5KSv4/s320/IMG_4295.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The apartment smelled fabulous for three days. Then, of course, I had to cook again. I did! And I continue to do so. </p><p>Wild Rice and Meatball Soup: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqra28_HyiX_Qm2e9Aa53cb65UJ8ZzQUarB317hFYTKiqHySeXmT-Lk9m_YJSg_AkLXcFHw-hiezdhO-Q-IDKGRLBxIjouNBB4GeYUsI5JC42OUp3mzawMz2H2gy2uBiqAm91i48ykI9S2AFWr3J-hcfjQ4MufsUHFGPgiTqEASZCLf2rghi1eRYk/s2016/riceMeaballsoup.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqra28_HyiX_Qm2e9Aa53cb65UJ8ZzQUarB317hFYTKiqHySeXmT-Lk9m_YJSg_AkLXcFHw-hiezdhO-Q-IDKGRLBxIjouNBB4GeYUsI5JC42OUp3mzawMz2H2gy2uBiqAm91i48ykI9S2AFWr3J-hcfjQ4MufsUHFGPgiTqEASZCLf2rghi1eRYk/s320/riceMeaballsoup.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Pasta e Fagioli:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyICXE8AnPs1wFkqbM23X6nI-6imXcBhkwGU8YBR-4tFfxp1J_mEAcsuE6IP0W8mDdQin2Jrs2AqumJuxrZTDHcXA28iLcBEHByJM-X5Jv0WU4L7a0QoOXnqk0Ms8HT_PaZum1C-Xv395gCX8F4mAwde-S-ROLhp1no4OPz4D9t9XGeTWp9Rrm2ho/s2016/IMG_4323.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyICXE8AnPs1wFkqbM23X6nI-6imXcBhkwGU8YBR-4tFfxp1J_mEAcsuE6IP0W8mDdQin2Jrs2AqumJuxrZTDHcXA28iLcBEHByJM-X5Jv0WU4L7a0QoOXnqk0Ms8HT_PaZum1C-Xv395gCX8F4mAwde-S-ROLhp1no4OPz4D9t9XGeTWp9Rrm2ho/s320/IMG_4323.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Chicken Cacciatore: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ5nMzKWjDZnVxcmZbu1ZJKQUpDuzyx50dOfSinJeZWy6Zi3hKN83FWa3vC-9FM97fonQI5FOI0iv2PQf6XVSohGlVUyWA63gb_0YmDiwzBdsDOMguUvEqZzZoitY-3EGh8_L_T7x1nvh1eqaC8_7pGVDoXQA94DzAw5AySCZPCohEWqswXUFxOw/s2016/ChickenCacciatore.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtZ5nMzKWjDZnVxcmZbu1ZJKQUpDuzyx50dOfSinJeZWy6Zi3hKN83FWa3vC-9FM97fonQI5FOI0iv2PQf6XVSohGlVUyWA63gb_0YmDiwzBdsDOMguUvEqZzZoitY-3EGh8_L_T7x1nvh1eqaC8_7pGVDoXQA94DzAw5AySCZPCohEWqswXUFxOw/s320/ChickenCacciatore.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Meatball and Potato Stew:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCF8i7OcgtuuVz__PiIQr8-JLPqHI8C_2SgCXU9MgKaO7ZfsThF1i3hicgN1t4bRMa7pPFoiQ471aRxeGXpRgOHx-PYpHIkGNkGKRxGCcFkhbA-H8W_g-HVMG1GvxNxO8wD0ggk4GVukF9x7d71avPzmfJ513ark5_fZrRL3UO5oZNogKzaTjLGU/s2016/IMG_4319.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCF8i7OcgtuuVz__PiIQr8-JLPqHI8C_2SgCXU9MgKaO7ZfsThF1i3hicgN1t4bRMa7pPFoiQ471aRxeGXpRgOHx-PYpHIkGNkGKRxGCcFkhbA-H8W_g-HVMG1GvxNxO8wD0ggk4GVukF9x7d71avPzmfJ513ark5_fZrRL3UO5oZNogKzaTjLGU/s320/IMG_4319.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Next up, I'm probably going to make my friend Beth's recipe for Brown Sugar Garlic Chicken, especially now that I've made time to read cookbook author Larsen’s tips for slow cooking. I know better now, and I’m doing better!</div><div><br /></div><div>For example, bone-in, skinless chicken parts (especially thighs) make for juicier chicken than boneless. And, if like me, you don't enjoy wrestling with chicken skin, ask the butcher at the grocery to take care of that. </div><div><br /></div><div>One thing I quickly perfected is the timing. I chop onions, garlic, carrots and mushrooms the night before, to save time in the morning, when my hand-eye coordination is not at its best. The next day, my goal is to get the lid on the slow cooker by 10 a.m. That means dinner is ready when this happens: </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAXon8s-JLq0Zpz50hXnMG38nAwW3qdfKMudCmcmtBgz49J7Wu3A3yFZELy9XFw8XR1bz4aNDlFaaJJHV1jM7VLs4tIRQzY37bRbc66aY1SzmwXNcp4d1K-awJetAXS_hFEiFWR1tbTvlg5mxXQme9ggQvtCIIOpFS8zHvQ5avFWAK0jss9zoJqs/s1453/IMG_4316.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1103" data-original-width="1453" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiAXon8s-JLq0Zpz50hXnMG38nAwW3qdfKMudCmcmtBgz49J7Wu3A3yFZELy9XFw8XR1bz4aNDlFaaJJHV1jM7VLs4tIRQzY37bRbc66aY1SzmwXNcp4d1K-awJetAXS_hFEiFWR1tbTvlg5mxXQme9ggQvtCIIOpFS8zHvQ5avFWAK0jss9zoJqs/s320/IMG_4316.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div>Bon appetit!<br /><p><br /></p></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-24139948503618443562022-12-27T11:47:00.000-08:002022-12-27T11:47:42.787-08:00Christmas 2022: A Retrospective <p> ‘Twas the night after Christmas and all through the house…</p><p>Who am I kidding? I can’t sustain this without bending words and faking rhymes, and besides, I don’t want to. (One privilege of aging is to own up when you don’t want to do something.)</p><p>What I do want to do is say is that as lovely as this Christmas was, on Dec. 26th I wasn’t quite ready to move on. Ten minutes after Halloween, stores put out Christmas decorations and start stocking shelves with holiday merchandise, so why, once Christmas comes, would we be in a hurry to abandon the holiday?</p><p>As is my habit, I’d finished the little Christmas shopping I do by Thanksgiving, and a few days later, I addressed cards to friends I would not see over the holiday. A week later, I mailed the cards and three packages, which probably annoys the recipients, but I choose not to stand in line at the post office in December. Ever. (Though deadline writing still thrills me, deadline living does not.) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGv8GDmHVRD_eGQFP__dY7_GNlFZyccy37EiWy56eFb1wi8ChwOfRoqDra3zZSYs5EV0Q-mfOkmn2i8lvHSV2eKTihCZBBhF3FBtngCoszGRUrnykN12Itp9k8xTPVEGHsDicNpbPCLKeBDSpZwLlQ_Q2TNZGRoPg1DNymx2s271JK8S6ht2B3eA/s4032/Madcracker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGv8GDmHVRD_eGQFP__dY7_GNlFZyccy37EiWy56eFb1wi8ChwOfRoqDra3zZSYs5EV0Q-mfOkmn2i8lvHSV2eKTihCZBBhF3FBtngCoszGRUrnykN12Itp9k8xTPVEGHsDicNpbPCLKeBDSpZwLlQ_Q2TNZGRoPg1DNymx2s271JK8S6ht2B3eA/s320/Madcracker.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>One evening, I streamed Tchaikovsky’s “The Nutcracker” as I wrapped gifts, a tradition in my house. I know this music and love it, but every note also brings to mind “The Madcracker,” a glorious parody put on by a modern dance company a long time ago. Because the artistic director first devised the show at my dining room table one Sunday afternoon, I got to be in the show, even when it toured the Midwest! </p><p>For eight years, each December I took time off from my job as a newspaper reporter, dressed up as the nymph Voluptua and tap danced (well, sort of) in the show, always illustrating more chutzpah than talent. Spending time in the company of Real Dancers was wonderful, and we’ve remained friends to this day. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvMA9k8yfWQRltvApNrVqfhqO2HXmiMfzI-c-IN61jhoMuDwNHrv3Ommx25H9ZNj4JNbNeMhOItf105WUZlGGhc_ls_oC9tZ_U2dBLs0qZOz93dzB8NCpcirrOywxhb9Oh3iUlwpBbLl3QNnQ-UAcBDfbLtym9b7MhNObHi1RVISRA2JCZeSxx6U/s1750/Voluptua%20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1403" data-original-width="1750" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvMA9k8yfWQRltvApNrVqfhqO2HXmiMfzI-c-IN61jhoMuDwNHrv3Ommx25H9ZNj4JNbNeMhOItf105WUZlGGhc_ls_oC9tZ_U2dBLs0qZOz93dzB8NCpcirrOywxhb9Oh3iUlwpBbLl3QNnQ-UAcBDfbLtym9b7MhNObHi1RVISRA2JCZeSxx6U/s320/Voluptua%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>This year, my holiday agenda included no costumes or musical cues. Because of COVID-19, big parties still were not on my schedule, though I did attend one very small (but quite festive) lunch the first week of December. Judy and I met up at my friend Susan’s house, where we ate take-out from a favorite upscale Mexican place and drank ginger beer punctuated with cranberries. The following week, I attended the holiday dinner held for residents of my apartment building. To take advantage of good ventilation, I sat about six feet away from the open door. </p><p>The third week of December, I traveled across the Bay Bridge to a liquidation warehouse, where I bought a fancy desk chair (gently used) that already has improved my posture and eased some lower back pain. (Thank you, defunct corporate offices in San Francisco that have flooded such warehouses with fine chairs that I can afford!) </p><p>On Christmas Eve, fully masked and accompanied by a boy I know, I took in “A Christmas Carol” at the regional theater. Watching, as always I delighted in the Fezziwigs’ party and wished I could hang out with Christmas Present, the most entertaining of the visiting spirits. Back at home later, I polished off the last of the home-baked, beautifully decorated cookies, a gift from my friend Julia. </p><p>And still there were more lovely moments to come! On Christmas Day, I enjoyed a delicious, low-key dinner at my son and daughter-in-law’s house, where I spent part of the time relaxing in my grandmother’s golden oak rocker. Short on space at my place when I moved to San Francisco, I gave it to the kids, and it looks great in their living room. Back at my place later, I re-read all the cards and admired the gifts I’ve received — and Christmas 2022 was over.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVhDF8T3bxboMCbsYNH-65ULfrsKptXre-eOCNvPt8jZoyVYFAcGSQGIzrKeLXzqyJzLwmuJsd1Rxa8CKuKMS_7T5zdU_YKRbvayVLh-v2-yw_Oz3yrS9HEkFQkHzI11Hp91CXBMzRJ0kbfOYGtNDFJGcDIdlJ_twnLiZONka0Wr3iep35dHIKwk/s4032/69370528463__2ED54CB8-49F7-4733-A3B7-31A8D02B1853.HEIC" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVhDF8T3bxboMCbsYNH-65ULfrsKptXre-eOCNvPt8jZoyVYFAcGSQGIzrKeLXzqyJzLwmuJsd1Rxa8CKuKMS_7T5zdU_YKRbvayVLh-v2-yw_Oz3yrS9HEkFQkHzI11Hp91CXBMzRJ0kbfOYGtNDFJGcDIdlJ_twnLiZONka0Wr3iep35dHIKwk/s320/69370528463__2ED54CB8-49F7-4733-A3B7-31A8D02B1853.HEIC" width="240" /></a></div><p>Well, not quite. </p><p>Years ago, a friend and I used to hit the stores on Dec. 26 to scoop up after-Christmas bargains — mostly red and green invitations, cups, plates and napkins for her big annual soiree the following year. Of course, we had lunch out, made a nice day of it. This year, I spent 15 minutes online to order a handful of fancy holiday bags for half price, and then I put away my presents. I heated and ate leftovers from Christmas dinner. I lighted my new candle that was supposed to smell like a pine forest but smells like a bland soy candle. </p><p>Then I settled in to see what the TV had to offer. </p><p>VOILA: an unexpected gift! Over Thanksgiving, a cable channel aired all seven seasons of “The West Wing,” maybe my favorite series ever, and now the shows were on again! </p><p>In November, I’d watched a few episodes and recorded a few, but missed much of the first season. I grabbed the remote and tuned in just in time to record “In Excelsus Deo,” the moving Christmas show from the first season in 1999. If you missed it, find the show and watch it. </p><p>Later, I realized I’d not yet honored a personal tradition. Every year, I read my favorite story of the season: Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory.” I’m cutting this short to go do that now. As I often do, I will stop just before the boy gets sent to military school and sadness ensues. If you don’t know the book, it’s not too late to pick up a copy and spend time in the presence of Capote, a literary master. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWw_lrM6Gj4EMiUVkWc0fCjYvKDa99TB1LkYrReaIMQhtEgLpMjqlxOVMgEwOwT8EqzH-ajKR_lW3QPI6-7WAhAR0uW5D_-NpZxWg1dny1WZEHmBkXJBLKhiyG8eG0iRqyf426IGZI6jlHeG7xrhq2rN_gQZ7Y5moaFAS7_TJfX8EVOz6ky4P3m2A/s2549/Capote.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2549" data-original-width="1950" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWw_lrM6Gj4EMiUVkWc0fCjYvKDa99TB1LkYrReaIMQhtEgLpMjqlxOVMgEwOwT8EqzH-ajKR_lW3QPI6-7WAhAR0uW5D_-NpZxWg1dny1WZEHmBkXJBLKhiyG8eG0iRqyf426IGZI6jlHeG7xrhq2rN_gQZ7Y5moaFAS7_TJfX8EVOz6ky4P3m2A/s320/Capote.tiff" width="245" /></a></div><p>The new year approaches — and by Saturday, I’ll be ready to let go of Christmas 2022. Happy New Year, one and all! </p><div><br /></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-43575363905950619262022-10-16T23:58:00.001-07:002022-10-16T23:58:23.481-07:00One Rant, Two Appreciations, Three Flashbacks<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3brwU3ppxwO2M6-EXtqZ7MBGXQrx7Ci8M6iMQ1a2zpSPGsDCL6-153pKEkkH_mhk1LxvWWpOgfku7vxrM8kTnw_oSR4WoNnnVWkfLdtwEyxGHZwm89M1xLNXnhb8BT0KbtHHO_U_VsL7633kbrlcWbnn8xMd_EcZsEKLm_GqfYEvIA7bvtFn06jM/s1280/Nonesuch%20Kentucky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="925" data-original-width="1280" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3brwU3ppxwO2M6-EXtqZ7MBGXQrx7Ci8M6iMQ1a2zpSPGsDCL6-153pKEkkH_mhk1LxvWWpOgfku7vxrM8kTnw_oSR4WoNnnVWkfLdtwEyxGHZwm89M1xLNXnhb8BT0KbtHHO_U_VsL7633kbrlcWbnn8xMd_EcZsEKLm_GqfYEvIA7bvtFn06jM/w400-h289/Nonesuch%20Kentucky.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>(Hold your horse...keep reading for the story behind this photo.) </p><p>During a recent Pamper Pat Week, I made appointments for several self-care treatments, indulgences I'd been putting off until after my Omicron vaccination and flu shot. When I arrived at one, the aesthetician asked, "Are we doing the Anti-Aging Facial today?” </p><p>I shook my head. “We're too late,” I said. “Let’s do the Old Lady with Dry Skin Facial.” </p><p>We laughed, and I settled in for the glorious experience that is a facial, a rare treat that I schedule once a year. Afterward, thrilled with my glowing, plumped-up face, I promised to start using an exfoliator again. Some years ago, I had seven or eight bottles and tubes and pots of skincare products that I never seemed to use in the right order or often enough. My current stash consists of a cleanser, a moisturizer and a serum. </p><p>Back home, shopping on line for the right product made me mad. The high-priced spreads and “drugstore” skincare products alike all promise “anti-aging” results. A promise is not a guarantee, of course, but this absurd claim is right up there with campaigns that insist certain diet regimens reduce the risk of death. (Good luck with that!) Still, I’m happy to take better care of my skin. </p><p><b>Worthy Books </b></p><p>For over a week, I’ve been crawling into bed at night with Jann Wenner’s book <a href="https://www.littlebrown.com/titles/jann-s-wenner/like-a-rolling-stone/9780316415392/">“Like a Rolling Stone: A Memoir.”</a> I’m a fan, and have read the award-winning magazine off and on since Wenner, now 76, founded it in 1967 with Ralph Gleason, a jazz critic for the San Francisco Chronicle. When I started reading the memoir, I thought I was well informed about Wenner’s many accomplishments. I wasn’t — he had a hand in far more amazing projects than I’d realized, and the man knows everyone. </p><p>The book is deliciously long — 592 pages — and has garnered high praise from Paul McCartney, Bono, Bruce Springsteen and AARP magazine. Bette Midler called it “a rip-roaring and speedy ride through the excesses, excitements, and tragedies of our generation. Alternately thrilling, bedeviling, and deeply moving...unparalleled reading.” </p><p>I agree. Today, Wenner’s son Gus runs the magazine, which continues to speak clearly on culture, current events and politics. </p><p>Geraldine Brooks’ <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/535715/horse-by-geraldine-brooks/">“Horse”</a> is another extraordinary read. This book on horse racing also covers race relations in our time as well as in the past, takes you into a dusty storage area at the Smithsonian Institution (I sneezed) and even invites you into Jackson Pollack’s art studio. It’s a quick read, even at 438 pages, because you’re so eager to find out what happens next. </p><p>A surprise lurks in the end notes, one that’s worth spoiling here. The horse, who raced under the name Lexington, was real, and was considered the best American racehorse of his day, in the 1850s. Brooks reveals that the animal’s mounted skeleton is on display at the International Museum of the Horse in Lexington, Kentucky. A friend who enjoyed the book just bought a plane ticket and plans to pay homage. </p><p><b>Memories of Kentucky </b></p><p>I’m familiar with Kentucky’s “horse country.” A branch of my mother’s family settled there, and when I was a kid we often visited in the summers. (Queen Elizabeth, a horse aficionado, also <a href="https://www.kentuckytourism.com/kentuckys-royal-connections">visited</a> Lexington at least five times, but I’m not certain we ever overlapped.) Our relatives owned a farm and tobacco fields in Nonesuch, about 35 minutes southwest of Lexington. Reading “Horse” summoned dozens of memories from those Kentucky vacations. Here are just three. </p><p>Rock fences, mortar-free and known as “dry-laid fences,” once lined the roads and marked off pastures and farmland in the 15 counties known as Kentucky’s Bluegrass region. In their book <a href="https://uknowledge.uky.edu/upk_cultural_history/3/">“Rock Fences of the Bluegrass,”</a> Carolyn Murray-Wooley and Karl Raitz note that early settlers from Scotland and Ireland built the first rock fences in the state and later, in the mid-1800s, "crews of Irish masons built many of the rock fences that bordered the newly created turnpikes” in the state. Some of those Irish settlers, my mother always said, were our ancestors. This still makes me very proud!</p><p>One day when I was about 7, weary after chasing chickens, I took a seat in the outhouse at the farm. Suddenly, the wooden door slowly opened, as I hadn't thought to lock it. It wasn't my parents, it wasn't my cousins or anyone else from the house — a cow had come to visit. Nothing like this ever happened at home, back in St. Louis, Missouri! I was a little scared, but I politely introduced myself. Apparently satisfied, the cow moved on. </p><p>On another trip, I was in the kitchen with my mother’s Aunt Mamie, who was baking biscuits. When a wasp flew in the open window, I ducked and squealed. Aunt Mamie laughed, grabbed a biscuit cooling on the counter, pulled it apart and expertly clapped the halves around the flying insect. Then she threw the biscuit to a dog in the yard, just beyond the wide porch. The house, which was built in 1906, is still in the family. </p><p>Sweet memories! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPBcGz6yzhTfXBBraYy1ne77wXrZZYfyFbz01hMUzKfamMc8_54iYacmKwB4FETVK6CHyuvF8oq1BKjRp92ZYsYJARFwSFgre8pr5fXrWsNeCuy65KG6_3cR2cxuDxSlm163UfNH9B4n2-8gbBKB9DS3yB3UNZ707eeOD624I529d2S4fQCPZ-Tak/s1280/Kentucky%20Farm%20in%20the%201960s.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="1280" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPBcGz6yzhTfXBBraYy1ne77wXrZZYfyFbz01hMUzKfamMc8_54iYacmKwB4FETVK6CHyuvF8oq1BKjRp92ZYsYJARFwSFgre8pr5fXrWsNeCuy65KG6_3cR2cxuDxSlm163UfNH9B4n2-8gbBKB9DS3yB3UNZ707eeOD624I529d2S4fQCPZ-Tak/w400-h226/Kentucky%20Farm%20in%20the%201960s.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-68912973291122989072022-07-10T15:42:00.001-07:002022-07-10T16:31:06.121-07:00The Great Escape: A Worry-Free Nap <p>Car horns. Sirens. Rumbling trucks. More sirens. The muffled roar of passing traffic. I hear none of it, because I’ve nodded off while sitting on my balcony. If someone had asked me if I could nap for an hour in a chair some 13 stories high above the noisy city streets, I would have said absolutely not. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoDoEVTtJq058JTu_0EiaXfzOiUTdK9KLyTm9U_nOMlrFu_oTr0ZswqG3mtP8G6frLbJg4VqTQqeQYCyyzW0BSjhObOz7P-ueFLe7C9VmKsQDRhHKRh28zWLLQr7AI90clpBypLVdq3a_0CT4zTQtsoFjbFlNUOxC-SE5SA0L4J-jsUvmPvpy07w/s2016/GTree.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNoDoEVTtJq058JTu_0EiaXfzOiUTdK9KLyTm9U_nOMlrFu_oTr0ZswqG3mtP8G6frLbJg4VqTQqeQYCyyzW0BSjhObOz7P-ueFLe7C9VmKsQDRhHKRh28zWLLQr7AI90clpBypLVdq3a_0CT4zTQtsoFjbFlNUOxC-SE5SA0L4J-jsUvmPvpy07w/s320/GTree.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">But I did. Fortunately, I had on a wide-brimmed sun hat and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, protection prompted by a recent visit to the dermatologist, who had "tsk-tsked" about past sun damage to my skin. </span></div><p>I’d stepped out on the balcony to get away from my desk, where I’d been working for about two hours. I was alert, ready to breathe deep and relax outside in the balmy 68-degree July weather. (Thank you, San Francisco, for your Mediterranean climate, which suits me so perfectly.) </p><p>Relaxing these days, for me, often requires first banishing fear, anger, frustration, disappointment and a whole litany of other disturbing mindsets that are always alert for opportunities to command my attention. </p><p>My maternal grandmother’s approach to achieving calm was to turn to the “Serenity Prayer,” Reinhold Niebuhr’s dictum asking God for “the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.” She had a ballpoint pen with that prayer inscribed on it. When my mother died, I found the pen in her purse, and now it’s in my desk drawer.</p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMcRWhMNa6XDH7NQ6wKdL1tNAa-saYqFblaiIGY_Acnvu2BiuWZMSWa0kNdeawF0S7aw1gPLR298h9ILjB2SZ3d2u3051RnAGKNfg7BvERL3-UnAxIGKDreMxovSiEH6YYHuw7-kxA_xYkU2afGek76jDacR062Dw_e7DJ4YnP5K-y5PI74te0MY/s2016/Serenity.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDMcRWhMNa6XDH7NQ6wKdL1tNAa-saYqFblaiIGY_Acnvu2BiuWZMSWa0kNdeawF0S7aw1gPLR298h9ILjB2SZ3d2u3051RnAGKNfg7BvERL3-UnAxIGKDreMxovSiEH6YYHuw7-kxA_xYkU2afGek76jDacR062Dw_e7DJ4YnP5K-y5PI74te0MY/s320/Serenity.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p>When I think about those words, usually I can think of something specific I can do to help in many situations, but sometimes I get stuck on how to determine what I can’t change or affect in any way. That’s how I came to settle on briefly reviewing and then banishing issues that trouble me, at least for a while. </p><p>Most often, I begin by thinking, “You do not live in Ukraine, so all your worries are small.” Then I flag that second part as false, because I worry about the war in Ukraine, which is no small thing. I wonder why the international community allows the pointless loss of life to drag on, but I know that this is too big for me to fix. </p><p>I worry about the many (too many) individuals in the U.S. who remain in thrall to a shyster, a con man, a psychopath who was (and maybe still is) ready to sacrifice democracy at the altar of his bloated ego. I worry that this same man’s power grab has led to the theocracy we now live under, ruled by people who insist that we all must believe exactly as they believe. </p><p>What can I do? Well, I sat out the Fourth of July, because as a woman in the U.S., I don’t feel free. Also, I can — and I will — vote, and through the non-partisan <a href="https://votefwd.org/">Vote Forward </a>campaign, I can encourage others to do the same. </p><p>I worry about our legislators and business leaders who care so little for their own children and grandchildren that they take actions to accelerate the climate crisis. Greed drives those actions. How do they not see that no amount of money ever will justify destroying the planet? I also worry about white people so desperate to feel superior to everyone else that they use guns and laws to back up their absurd biases. That’s two more issues I can’t fix, though I can — and do — raise my voice. </p><p>Mentally ill people, some of them armed, are allowed to live on San Francisco streets because a vocal segment of the population here says that is their right. I worry about that twisted thinking, just as I worry about the open-air drug dealing in a nearby neighborhood where children walk to school. I write letters to the mayor and my supervisor, though no satisfying answers are offered. <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ9k7LsxiyuXrNchxK8Rdm2R13MjX0r1NxhyU-I8SYiYpMlHeWYIZhu5lBpN35hv6amOeoJulwtTuGlHTunFT_4arWQ4nQFii3m7i9OkuejCExn86oXHnzatGKdvPDXBIaQRKNpcdeKtXzdkfctTNZouYKEf9SX58FwpmWcNL0s6q-Ba6MXWmJdF8/s1544/Masked.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1544" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ9k7LsxiyuXrNchxK8Rdm2R13MjX0r1NxhyU-I8SYiYpMlHeWYIZhu5lBpN35hv6amOeoJulwtTuGlHTunFT_4arWQ4nQFii3m7i9OkuejCExn86oXHnzatGKdvPDXBIaQRKNpcdeKtXzdkfctTNZouYKEf9SX58FwpmWcNL0s6q-Ba6MXWmJdF8/s320/Masked.jpg" width="320" /></a></p><p>The uncertainty surrounding COVID-19 — and the many mixed messages coming from experts and ignorant fools — concerns me a great deal. We seem to be at a point where everyone decides for themselves what level of risk they will take, and that does not appear to be working out all that well now that the new version of Omicron is with us. This, I can manage to a point, because I can wear a mask to protect my health when I feel at risk. </p><p>When my fretting zeroes in on friends going through hard times with health crises or other causes of emotional overload, I can send a card with an encouraging word or make a call and offer to help. (Locally, I can even do a porch drop-off of fine chocolate, when requested.) When I want to help support a cause, though I have to leave the marching to younger people, I can send a wee bit of money. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1cT_Tc_b5zU4tywMCW3XCxw2vZUqseB7hZrhJ33xbBzUOHw3xhT43D5JpXlQ8_2uoc9rV7oyswVehbMC4EMKvAyauTZdSvKqffiKpp439_s4BkC3a-yLpw-gTSTQZTEnzo1pja16SZIbAQDHj70mpIATL8aS_m8IFLXEVlUPGEfvQPEgMSR5uj84/s2016/Tomatoes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1cT_Tc_b5zU4tywMCW3XCxw2vZUqseB7hZrhJ33xbBzUOHw3xhT43D5JpXlQ8_2uoc9rV7oyswVehbMC4EMKvAyauTZdSvKqffiKpp439_s4BkC3a-yLpw-gTSTQZTEnzo1pja16SZIbAQDHj70mpIATL8aS_m8IFLXEVlUPGEfvQPEgMSR5uj84/s320/Tomatoes.jpg" width="240" /></a></p><p>When I worry about how much I worry — the unexamined life is not for me — I search for moments of joy, among them a visit with my grandson, hummingbirds at the feeder, a report that a wildfire is under control, a call from a friend to say she’s baked a cake and wants to share a piece or two, a boat ride, listening to music I love, a fulfilling work assignment, a Giants baseball game that isn’t cringe-worthy, a book that keeps me up late and a juicy heirloom tomato.</p><p>And now I have another escape: a refreshing nap in the sun. </p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-90150210215422350092022-03-26T19:47:00.014-07:002022-04-05T11:01:01.603-07:00A Salute to San Francisco<p><span>The city where I’ve chosen to live for almost 12 years does not need me to defend it, but I will. Though the national and local media sometimes make much of San Francisco’s problems — insufficient affordable housing, hamstrung politicians, homelessness, a school board run aground, street crime and rising water lapping at the shores of this peninsula that measures just under 49 square miles — I love it. </span></p><p>Here are some of the reasons why. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghV9-xoo_cIANo6nDheJerul8bZ5wXHsV_Wg8dIaFmx0zPU_hYT-spNOm6EwtJ2ecO-NJi2hrWIUG5vnPXCOBm_ldxGRfbavAC1180RklX20ZxNh6PSkWJPqeo1Bq8WWOGDvGoQozeNmmMArZ8LFqe4E-Fn1fBWKugtWmAZ0OAtFDoErhyUEF7Cew/s3056/OceanBeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3056" data-original-width="2235" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghV9-xoo_cIANo6nDheJerul8bZ5wXHsV_Wg8dIaFmx0zPU_hYT-spNOm6EwtJ2ecO-NJi2hrWIUG5vnPXCOBm_ldxGRfbavAC1180RklX20ZxNh6PSkWJPqeo1Bq8WWOGDvGoQozeNmmMArZ8LFqe4E-Fn1fBWKugtWmAZ0OAtFDoErhyUEF7Cew/s320/OceanBeach.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><p><b><span>San Francisco Exemplifies Location, Location, Location</span></b></p><p><span>From Point Lobos — one of the city’s outer headlands overlooking the Golden Gate Strait — you can see where the Pacific Ocean rushes into San Francisco Bay as the Sacramento River and the San Joaquin River </span><span>flow out. From the beach at Crissy Field, east of the Golden Gate Bridge, you can watch giant cargo ships, fishing boats, ferries, yachts and sailboats make their way through the water. Off Ocean Beach, surfers bob in the water, their hooded wetsuits giving them the appearance of so many sea lions poking their heads out for a look around. </span></p><p><span>I’ve been drawn to water for decades. For 40 years, </span><span>from boats large and small, </span><span>I’ve watched whales in the wild off both U.S. and Canadian coasts, in Mexico and in Argentina. Snorkeling is my sport, and I’ve spent time hovering above reef sharks (in the Galapagos Islands) following majestic manta rays (in the Caribbean Sea) and talking to sea turtles (off Hawaii). Now, more often than not I’m simply sitting by water, which research shows can lower stress, relieve anxiety and increase happiness. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgncywEwsadOOy0eTtODjbnyFO08wii05BrtOM6KcdcsyAfTEBNufalvAErJdiaeSwrxGKe4fOK-nhO8RCRUPMIQOjuOiCnwqFl4u78ZfSOpk4nSnYEQiZiHzpzGCGXDQPntrNxUP8qC_YT0csIirKf1jvjq80DsOXWtE4DjpBI3NXvPJ9Usfb2kaI/s1600/AGGBridgefrom%20water.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgncywEwsadOOy0eTtODjbnyFO08wii05BrtOM6KcdcsyAfTEBNufalvAErJdiaeSwrxGKe4fOK-nhO8RCRUPMIQOjuOiCnwqFl4u78ZfSOpk4nSnYEQiZiHzpzGCGXDQPntrNxUP8qC_YT0csIirKf1jvjq80DsOXWtE4DjpBI3NXvPJ9Usfb2kaI/s320/AGGBridgefrom%20water.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><b><span>San Francisco Is Beautiful </span></b></p><p><span>Iconic landmarks abound. How about that Golden Gate Bridge, for starters? You can catch glimpses of it from all over town (including from my balcony) and for me, it’s still a thrill to drive over it. Flowers bloom everywhere much of the year, (small gardens thrive in many a front yard) and palm trees wave from unexpected spots all over town. The city also boasts eclectic architecture. Here's a tip: After you've seen the renowned Painted Ladies, check out the beautiful houses on Waller at Masonic. </span></p><p><span>What about green space? Some 220 parks are sprinkled throughout the city. Golden Gate Park, which takes up 1,017 acres, houses a botanical garden, a bison paddock (the five older females’ names all begin with “B”) the oldest glass and wood Victorian greenhouse in the western hemisphere, a space for free outdoor swing dancing lessons, 10 lakes, a Japanese Tea Garden and two word-class museums. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvtIV2xnJCqcPSAnhIapkrsxLtnJMpyvPw-1jhnZXiZwaiBjYZoFLI3vbpRxQVqXkTip0PZ5cRYivBEYYSKWyBFgFBwWnUtGWdU8t6X2MFP0jyZmMbhUS91eKqEXtdhWzhUavryPSQLxDPPkPipqqd5KUnirqgoXCLeWVkqJUzQ7_xvAJp5vVG3M/s3264/100Japan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvtIV2xnJCqcPSAnhIapkrsxLtnJMpyvPw-1jhnZXiZwaiBjYZoFLI3vbpRxQVqXkTip0PZ5cRYivBEYYSKWyBFgFBwWnUtGWdU8t6X2MFP0jyZmMbhUS91eKqEXtdhWzhUavryPSQLxDPPkPipqqd5KUnirqgoXCLeWVkqJUzQ7_xvAJp5vVG3M/s320/100Japan.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p><b><span>San Francisco Embraces Art</span></b></p><p><span>Golden Gate Park is home to the California Academy of Sciences and the de Young Museum, two of the 50 museums in the city. (Read my Next Avenue article about some of them here: https://www.nextavenue.org/modern-art-beat-poets/) Some are large (the Asian Art Museum, the Legion of Honor, the Exploratorium), some are small (the Cartoon Art Museum, the Cable Car Museum, the Beat Museum) and some are rare (the Museum of the African Diaspora, the Musée Mécanique, a retired Navy submarine). </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxiKdLTKkWy6IOPGPsFYbGFhVtshvQYlui3jIaemTcd0oWOZi2-mBUCH47mKPwqX0gXWbh_DI5PDXyF4j0OD02O6gwT9WcA1gkC8qlv_ORl6G86Zmg5zQU7HfOlVZKZTsALW9_gN-V2X9W3_VFN1eRKc-Xmg41rzZbrzfOE0sFsyPR_31Ee4L-XpU/s2584/deYoungVertical.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="2584" data-original-width="2224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxiKdLTKkWy6IOPGPsFYbGFhVtshvQYlui3jIaemTcd0oWOZi2-mBUCH47mKPwqX0gXWbh_DI5PDXyF4j0OD02O6gwT9WcA1gkC8qlv_ORl6G86Zmg5zQU7HfOlVZKZTsALW9_gN-V2X9W3_VFN1eRKc-Xmg41rzZbrzfOE0sFsyPR_31Ee4L-XpU/s320/deYoungVertical.jpg" width="275" /></span></a></div><span><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8cXRfC-nGvg17h46OeMpxf81serMzAXzW7cA-lela1CshRHyBwaUpqWM_uTPPrPainqxKWWLWefuNX_JAkS4GBgP-ThwuUUZ0UzjqDopYfPuDEbN2_8Cjvv3kzgWuDf-yf8e9VFh47rNG4Tfpm0bpjniGcKk-p8efprUSm7Vll3K3pTuxBjN8bk/s3969/WharfMusee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="3969" data-original-width="3056" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8cXRfC-nGvg17h46OeMpxf81serMzAXzW7cA-lela1CshRHyBwaUpqWM_uTPPrPainqxKWWLWefuNX_JAkS4GBgP-ThwuUUZ0UzjqDopYfPuDEbN2_8Cjvv3kzgWuDf-yf8e9VFh47rNG4Tfpm0bpjniGcKk-p8efprUSm7Vll3K3pTuxBjN8bk/s320/WharfMusee.jpg" width="246" /></span></a></div><p><span>At the Hyde Street Pier, part of the <a href="(www.nps.gov/safr/index.htm)">San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park</a>, visitors can tour historic ships. Public art is on display throughout the city. And the bullet holes in the floor in the prison on Alcatraz Island dramatically illustrate some of that building’s history. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVd0RslJVql5VvfoclhswB-rNnmH40-lK4stP_CUk2YxZJgtHRZVM0tMEbiDA0vWy5BNRoE56kzy_RhXtauiZ5HXBs9mz5uVQ2d6Vz4s53BxqcKWXHl2UbMH1GLvxVpLjNOsBvLCIphQKPswUib6Br08U9djkRDUFbQfhoueJhnCwTmERNichpG0/s4019/balclutha.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="2586" data-original-width="4019" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVd0RslJVql5VvfoclhswB-rNnmH40-lK4stP_CUk2YxZJgtHRZVM0tMEbiDA0vWy5BNRoE56kzy_RhXtauiZ5HXBs9mz5uVQ2d6Vz4s53BxqcKWXHl2UbMH1GLvxVpLjNOsBvLCIphQKPswUib6Br08U9djkRDUFbQfhoueJhnCwTmERNichpG0/s320/balclutha.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><b><span>San Francisco Celebrates Culture</span></b></p><p><span>Theater. Music. Dance. Lectures. It’s all here, in its many incarnations, and I am grateful. I’ve seen “Hamilton” three times (!), been moved by the plight of refugees portrayed in “The Jungle,” delighted in Bill Irwin’s one-man show “On Beckett” and watched in awe as Sha Sha Higby performed in a storefront theater. Sutton Foster, Tovah Feldshuh and my friend Ken Haller all brought cabaret shows here, and I was in attendance. </span></p><p><span>From the highest balcony, I saw Placido Domingo in “Cyrano” at the San Francisco Opera. After interviewing classical violinist Vadim Gluzman, I saw him play at the San Francisco Symphony. I also bought a ticket to hear Bernadette Peters sing. With friends, I attended “Audium,” a concert of "sound sculptures" broadcast on 169 speakers. Plus, the city gave the music so many top bands, including The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Santana, Sly & The Family Stone, Creedence Clearwater Revival and more. </span></p><p><span>I have attended the San Francisco Ballet’s legendary “The Nutcracker” — in 1944, the company debuted the first full-length version of that ballet staged in the U.S. Equally enjoyable was watching expert hula dancers perform in a most unlikely spot — a sandwich shop out by the water, after hours one rainy week night. Plus, I know where Rudolph Nureyev and Dame Margot Fonteyn were busted for smoking dope on a rooftop. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kjqFxQnbp9f44tTzzg1vr6I80GIEL2lcwcrsLW-QgEphb6ZWYg3q7IiLOS1dbH8w1Xl-KKpkucDZWIBujd9YwsddKvJOQZ22zM1TWRb-9IGQctbnN9n6UTbNpsk7uKmhijjaUDGN3MD1zCrBIzrB-_tIlDPi8GqB4ySAVHKwkVS9gnmJEfzrudg/s4032/Hula.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4kjqFxQnbp9f44tTzzg1vr6I80GIEL2lcwcrsLW-QgEphb6ZWYg3q7IiLOS1dbH8w1Xl-KKpkucDZWIBujd9YwsddKvJOQZ22zM1TWRb-9IGQctbnN9n6UTbNpsk7uKmhijjaUDGN3MD1zCrBIzrB-_tIlDPi8GqB4ySAVHKwkVS9gnmJEfzrudg/s320/Hula.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p><span>Some book authors come through town to read in the many independent bookstores; others require larger spaces. When Margaret Atwood was here, an audience member asked her, “Are you a witch?” (Atwood laughed.) When Billy Collins read his poetry, I hoped the evening would go on and on. Richard Powers was quick to anger when an audience member questioned whether trees should be considered sentient. And Ricky Jay gifted me with a deck of cards when he gave a talk, though he declined to show off his card-throwing skills. </span></p><p><span>Fine food is important here, too. We've got quality and quantity both. Before COVID-19, supposedly even if you ate dinner out every night for 15 years, you still would not have visited every restaurant. During the pandemic, the city lost some restaurants, but over the last few months, new ones are opening all the time. Have to say I am thrilled that I live somewhere that I can buy fresh malasadas!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyR1Op9iVQzXMKDezHxXlJDyjnHyCrLJKmGD1RNLn_hzySGDEDowcSSmbBAy7Wfgqb0Tg6JvxKdCgGE8F4UetbsT3vkN_FhEzWsR1bP14zVd0przr1N87WOzZcUVxMf0YabGKUQx0v5B4kSSz3tCo88dQULqh3rUMBB67ew-udKZiCYYPdS_2H6xI/s3264/malasada.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyR1Op9iVQzXMKDezHxXlJDyjnHyCrLJKmGD1RNLn_hzySGDEDowcSSmbBAy7Wfgqb0Tg6JvxKdCgGE8F4UetbsT3vkN_FhEzWsR1bP14zVd0przr1N87WOzZcUVxMf0YabGKUQx0v5B4kSSz3tCo88dQULqh3rUMBB67ew-udKZiCYYPdS_2H6xI/s320/malasada.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p><b><span>San Francisco Welcomes Quirky</span></b></p><p><span>Historians note that what started as a small Spanish settlement in 1776 grew from about 1,000 inhabitants in 1848 to 25,000 in 1849 after gold was discovered in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains. Back then, eggs jumped from a dollar each to $3, a pound of coffee cost $40 and overalls went for $45 a pair. Author and historian Gary Kamiya tells great tales about San Francisco's history in his book "Cool Gray City of Love," and he generously provides resources for </span><span>readers like me who want to know more.</span><span> </span></p><p><span>Today, like many other cities, San Francisco holds an annual nude bike ride, pub crawls in December for people dressed as Santa and street festivals that pay homage to neighborhoods, subcultures and assorted holidays. The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence — men dressed as glamorous nuns known for their charitable acts — was founded here in 1979 and now is a worldwide movement. One day, out for a drive, I came across the Sisters celebrating near one of the tiled mosaic staircases in town, and caught one sliding down a bannister. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmJ0mgjfG398VLL0DBCC9AFDxLRSGLbuogJRaezVIRMQ9yK6UZb5WpGVxIhIFulHSxlxQH0w4MC6F4TW968Gm-AE29NvquxIRbnjDsYFwy3r3SPtH9w7efP7OecXxMm7qEMfRMm2E7ys4_s2Ll0IkPlqFsKyTjiPpY6dQrLPkH_pJo_5DGwR4zrg/s3264/newindulge.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmJ0mgjfG398VLL0DBCC9AFDxLRSGLbuogJRaezVIRMQ9yK6UZb5WpGVxIhIFulHSxlxQH0w4MC6F4TW968Gm-AE29NvquxIRbnjDsYFwy3r3SPtH9w7efP7OecXxMm7qEMfRMm2E7ys4_s2Ll0IkPlqFsKyTjiPpY6dQrLPkH_pJo_5DGwR4zrg/s320/newindulge.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><p><span>I like that everyone in this city has an opinion on almost everything, a trait I share. I like that no one makes a big deal out of it when a man walks along a downtown street with a large iguana draped over his head. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQpV1TeWOR5p0oBkmvrhbfMTMWUupDSrvKgTzYv_MAj5hiTHWrdpqfFYJCPPObEXfVT0wgBzB1HFksQ8X403eC6S_h0N03EtIxlB1ajHvhKzSGo7g-HaGCYGPHJjp91tqwdagJGYbDtf4spUEWPjze4i5sQ1GF9xiJryIlCJzbWlonicZ9Fl44zU/s3264/IguanaMan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzQpV1TeWOR5p0oBkmvrhbfMTMWUupDSrvKgTzYv_MAj5hiTHWrdpqfFYJCPPObEXfVT0wgBzB1HFksQ8X403eC6S_h0N03EtIxlB1ajHvhKzSGo7g-HaGCYGPHJjp91tqwdagJGYbDtf4spUEWPjze4i5sQ1GF9xiJryIlCJzbWlonicZ9Fl44zU/s320/IguanaMan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span><p>When I saw a giant cloud shaped liked a sperm whale, I was able to board a boat the next day from a pier just 30 minutes away — and see migrating whales! </p></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLD38WQL9q0WpEd0Ix46DFYtKj0YhkrXAXydnthiK48c6zSSD6oYYUyJrvOqFFl15evGRm-Oq9ChowlLsSxaxSz9FI6_Yz2ZYr7Pl9VbAxc7nJTkIPSBHfFKuHisxOFqauYsvZLROV_vAPZlKBVeG1j9UhYIIlN6lkfBsvPwm25v0Ow-IearEdVE/s1931/whalecloud.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="1931" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBLD38WQL9q0WpEd0Ix46DFYtKj0YhkrXAXydnthiK48c6zSSD6oYYUyJrvOqFFl15evGRm-Oq9ChowlLsSxaxSz9FI6_Yz2ZYr7Pl9VbAxc7nJTkIPSBHfFKuHisxOFqauYsvZLROV_vAPZlKBVeG1j9UhYIIlN6lkfBsvPwm25v0Ow-IearEdVE/s320/whalecloud.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><p><span>San Francisco is a baseball town. When I moved here in 2010, I committed post-season treason and shifted my allegiance from the St. Louis Cardinals to the San Francisco Giants, and later got to appear in a commercial for the team. I remain a particular fan of Tim Lincecum, the pitcher extraordinaire known as The Freak.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptjLWn7nSRL9Ec3EayG2Au4rYtB8FRB7VIpQBLDoOm0eKMqAq2LvtGqhBnfgl6sS4ODGR51WvqEsgynpIlP4MCiLfgWHx8xATCdlfSXLi4debV3W54s8MXHs2YD4ZHJ6vJSGzWTCb6JqvOI1e3eamrHUT5yx7TunMSpD_X1FYL8lHceYU3p2n5OQ/s449/1Giants.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="406" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgptjLWn7nSRL9Ec3EayG2Au4rYtB8FRB7VIpQBLDoOm0eKMqAq2LvtGqhBnfgl6sS4ODGR51WvqEsgynpIlP4MCiLfgWHx8xATCdlfSXLi4debV3W54s8MXHs2YD4ZHJ6vJSGzWTCb6JqvOI1e3eamrHUT5yx7TunMSpD_X1FYL8lHceYU3p2n5OQ/s320/1Giants.jpg" width="289" /></span></a></div><p><span>And I like that orange poppies grow out of sidewalk cracks and on verdant hillsides and even in concrete medians along busy streets. The jaunty flowers are at home here. So am I. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDekR_q1pwX4ru6_fh5reMHiJOETo8i9-I_ZgeKE_Dsz1b6iSDw_LIW7Nhg6wi6NOOzjj_2BDsve4EBzWNkSdL3zjIjp8hNHzEB8iXzLFjgFpmSP3dFFjYK34mwgfeGwtzB5rOqRL4MxGKW1t8eQtKv-9vvWJFHYlRsLlIFZfSM9GYu5Pn_MJ3Yw/s3264/Poppies.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxDekR_q1pwX4ru6_fh5reMHiJOETo8i9-I_ZgeKE_Dsz1b6iSDw_LIW7Nhg6wi6NOOzjj_2BDsve4EBzWNkSdL3zjIjp8hNHzEB8iXzLFjgFpmSP3dFFjYK34mwgfeGwtzB5rOqRL4MxGKW1t8eQtKv-9vvWJFHYlRsLlIFZfSM9GYu5Pn_MJ3Yw/s320/Poppies.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span><br /></span><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div><br /></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-81235952618691278382021-12-31T15:51:00.000-08:002021-12-31T15:51:28.802-08:00Don't Postpone Joy, Regardless<p>Dismay may be a valid response to much of 2021, a year when the U.S. saw more than 54 million cases of COVID-19 and more than 800,000 deaths from it — so many of them preventable. Many of us also have struggled with dark visions of the future of democracy, assuming we have a planet left on which to practice it. </p><p>But today a shiny new year beckons, so this is no time for existential dread or self-pity. (On that pungent topic, American cartoonist Dick Guindon notes, “You shouldn't wallow in self-pity. But it's OK to put your feet in it and swish them around a little.”) </p><p>As the gifted Stephen Sondheim reminds us in his song, “I’m here,” survival is triumph, and a reason for joy. Photos snapped with my phone captured many happy moments from 2021, and I’m sharing them here. </p><p><b>JANUARY</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggZVxfID4RNB8odTUb1aqAhmdoqh-KDh6nCMXMnj2J3ZVETdCAzZeDvdY5I6BWPr1mGQ2eLSUXigtP-9itlxKQE4IJ-yGbyaLoUHMZF8wVU9GeegTtRc6eOxo2mcadARNaBTyN2oL-hZErK4EQ5T23TA3KtGWSHruwEcFN9RhBYY13ruJTWYNr3YI=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEggZVxfID4RNB8odTUb1aqAhmdoqh-KDh6nCMXMnj2J3ZVETdCAzZeDvdY5I6BWPr1mGQ2eLSUXigtP-9itlxKQE4IJ-yGbyaLoUHMZF8wVU9GeegTtRc6eOxo2mcadARNaBTyN2oL-hZErK4EQ5T23TA3KtGWSHruwEcFN9RhBYY13ruJTWYNr3YI=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>As a longtime sunset aficionado, I am so happy to have a 13th-floor apartment that faces due West so I can indulge in my harmless hobby every day. </p><p><b>FEBRUARY</b> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyCyMmJZNxFhYEW1-Q0gLq156EKUeerB2JHJyzcAsrloHMf23o5UNIMEbuYxlc4HGP2DlLGl9keecbgEvgSahBiUx8FaarvXh_mp-0sCnPdG2nCd18LvH8SUVj3OcghuKosty4HDdhmj3pdZl9q2AaUxMtx3rIMNayFdbqLzqklhGtHLWbEpC8kL8=s4019" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2586" data-original-width="4019" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgyCyMmJZNxFhYEW1-Q0gLq156EKUeerB2JHJyzcAsrloHMf23o5UNIMEbuYxlc4HGP2DlLGl9keecbgEvgSahBiUx8FaarvXh_mp-0sCnPdG2nCd18LvH8SUVj3OcghuKosty4HDdhmj3pdZl9q2AaUxMtx3rIMNayFdbqLzqklhGtHLWbEpC8kL8=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div>Launched in 1886, the Balclutha now is docked in the San Francisco Maritime National Historical Park, and her story (Pottery! Cutlery! Whiskey!) always excites me. (Read more here: <a href="http://www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/balclutha-history.htm">www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/balclutha-history.htm</a>)</div><p><b>MARCH</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvKmQsBq-BCXDt6KO6uGYtC4RVAAleZkfSzZ72I6SOeMYU0TLyzs9niKZopWZ7tjC56y1uEiwe80wa92rhMpj-MzafwxpeQsd-Xgk336qy5q5imVBvRHv7yHgRAm1K-16_PKdWYVdbuMH3ELhbmS0ShW9__dXRhz0Qv_VJXsvIui-sW-7XjBSr_fs=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvKmQsBq-BCXDt6KO6uGYtC4RVAAleZkfSzZ72I6SOeMYU0TLyzs9niKZopWZ7tjC56y1uEiwe80wa92rhMpj-MzafwxpeQsd-Xgk336qy5q5imVBvRHv7yHgRAm1K-16_PKdWYVdbuMH3ELhbmS0ShW9__dXRhz0Qv_VJXsvIui-sW-7XjBSr_fs=s320" width="240" /></a></div>I grew up eating rainbow trout that Daddy caught in Arkansas' White River. Now I head to the Sausalito marina often, to feast on trout at Fish. I always mean to order something else — but I never do. <p></p><p><b>APRIL</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmxgnetcr_i2cFBWtNmxubTcetdfyvCnflL6fRvG9V4AqRtbotkL1h7s-gETrzp97bFhv_532fuUD2KwcZwWAy5XX00ZX02QbA5pCNept0cuiivY9OhbcW3KiX480mqidY0k7R6zqROQhILsyhoi9NEVqctGpoe4qAissE1p082vhol_O9W5yCNDU=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmxgnetcr_i2cFBWtNmxubTcetdfyvCnflL6fRvG9V4AqRtbotkL1h7s-gETrzp97bFhv_532fuUD2KwcZwWAy5XX00ZX02QbA5pCNept0cuiivY9OhbcW3KiX480mqidY0k7R6zqROQhILsyhoi9NEVqctGpoe4qAissE1p082vhol_O9W5yCNDU=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p>I also grew up reading everything I could find about Josephine Baker, and when the de Young Museum (<a href="https://deyoung.famsf.org/">https://deyoung.famsf.org/</a>) in Golden Gate Park featured an exhibit on Alexander Calder, I ran right over to see this, one of several sculptures he did of Baker. Sexy! </p><p><b>MAY</b></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_7ZDmL2nQLgwwu1adnU0Y16jepsVgtLy2XC4U77gDEtWmQQI3N3r644erL9EfgT-NNBI2gEu6FkiXD5vwTPSRBAjQ6hlgn3FCr-Ij_XkjKbgNlOBHqtbH173cGEInXJKs09ntVBzHqkC_5nlZny74g8_lDsvQsOTTjZ-M4GafqmjOhGLFRc5dz6M=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi_7ZDmL2nQLgwwu1adnU0Y16jepsVgtLy2XC4U77gDEtWmQQI3N3r644erL9EfgT-NNBI2gEu6FkiXD5vwTPSRBAjQ6hlgn3FCr-Ij_XkjKbgNlOBHqtbH173cGEInXJKs09ntVBzHqkC_5nlZny74g8_lDsvQsOTTjZ-M4GafqmjOhGLFRc5dz6M=s320" width="240" /></a></div>During a visit to Filoli Gardens (<a href="https://filoli.org/">https://filoli.org/</a>) in May, ginkgo trees were for sale in the gift shop! I often sit next to my tree and tell it the history of this magnificent species. <p></p><p>JUNE</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxVQ_q77l07pI1m0cZmb4tJDxv-XDNFgPmUsmlJSvJkF0RyOiqP1oJ0n0ui8IVKoFFvLNxFM-I2wewCUn8twP-qo3UhVVvC11_LgqkHAvxMktKRpGSYg7bSVwJh2A3YPS-qGTOYgMQ8B_0S5EgYtXaXP9IygBXkLL6OI7CGei5938UKgjjfSvT3t0=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjxVQ_q77l07pI1m0cZmb4tJDxv-XDNFgPmUsmlJSvJkF0RyOiqP1oJ0n0ui8IVKoFFvLNxFM-I2wewCUn8twP-qo3UhVVvC11_LgqkHAvxMktKRpGSYg7bSVwJh2A3YPS-qGTOYgMQ8B_0S5EgYtXaXP9IygBXkLL6OI7CGei5938UKgjjfSvT3t0=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div>Even the Tyrannosaurus rex (or what remains of it) at the California Academy of Sciences (<a href="http://www.calacademy.org/">www.calacademy.org/</a>) wears a mask indoors! And why not? Whatever it takes to keep us safe! </div><div><br /></div><div><b>JULY</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgK19xZx3zq7JSf3AxrYuBalH07tHCyH8I3riJQZaUpJVHL9hLCN0nZ12YvYFOfUPxlDHzmtl2CdZqPpIOfxPbKNzuhG4OR64dTM4VbBYzodcc3qZOw8Us1hBNJq0ji2mDSL3WeKqB1AjN1hq0ZLzdUCU4qK22kztVnlblkFkjmX24vA2RSTV5ykWU=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgK19xZx3zq7JSf3AxrYuBalH07tHCyH8I3riJQZaUpJVHL9hLCN0nZ12YvYFOfUPxlDHzmtl2CdZqPpIOfxPbKNzuhG4OR64dTM4VbBYzodcc3qZOw8Us1hBNJq0ji2mDSL3WeKqB1AjN1hq0ZLzdUCU4qK22kztVnlblkFkjmX24vA2RSTV5ykWU=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div>Got to cheer on "Late Night LaMonte" Wade at Oracle Park with the family one beautiful July afternoon! He saved a lot of night games with walk-off hits for the Giants. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>AUGUST</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicb6fqZa9LcsIls1r7Zn2XRJAdJxyaRVN2JX0UGZwoVtDbPA_4l3PIAURi6cNStbJrq2a7slv1arObg5IdYA3cfWFxz1-2QtMcRtOQM9Htbg3FfIlkdxOLXOF58IBiACbSylmBSzGXJUrKwtrlWPr1p3eexbTWHOph9rfwkCGW5fZ7O4U-5MbvWJY=s3968" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2376" data-original-width="3968" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicb6fqZa9LcsIls1r7Zn2XRJAdJxyaRVN2JX0UGZwoVtDbPA_4l3PIAURi6cNStbJrq2a7slv1arObg5IdYA3cfWFxz1-2QtMcRtOQM9Htbg3FfIlkdxOLXOF58IBiACbSylmBSzGXJUrKwtrlWPr1p3eexbTWHOph9rfwkCGW5fZ7O4U-5MbvWJY=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Headed to Moss Landing with my friend Julia for a whale-watch trip! Been at this for 40 years now. (I. Am. Old.) Always love time on the ocean! And if you don't already follow my Facebook posts on Whaleopedia (<a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063957405764">www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063957405764</a>) about all things whale, dolphin and porpoise, start today. Kids especially love my Wednesday Whale Fact. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>SEPTEMBER</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8TE-a9-AV0P9QMZfoBPpJttZVsFatplO70bMZ-WSyopEYy87YQYWns0r4kcnLn0hx7SfPOVZLqr_Jmh_NZXuiCutsX8VqB1bJfOgTwW504SwyXfFVQRVe8cy8kql9u4Y_lyitpvuKEVDc-WEq1AZlSmlXaJ2M2gNUuJCWtQrxvc8-lB2L1sf4QOg=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8TE-a9-AV0P9QMZfoBPpJttZVsFatplO70bMZ-WSyopEYy87YQYWns0r4kcnLn0hx7SfPOVZLqr_Jmh_NZXuiCutsX8VqB1bJfOgTwW504SwyXfFVQRVe8cy8kql9u4Y_lyitpvuKEVDc-WEq1AZlSmlXaJ2M2gNUuJCWtQrxvc8-lB2L1sf4QOg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div>Judy, my friend for 48 years (!) came to visit, and we dropped in on Yoda, who dispenses wisdom outside Lucasfilms Headquarters in the Presidio. Then, wisely (it was a nippy day), we ducked into the nearby coffee shop.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>OCTOBER</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcCt3q8suEbfkRPGvTr8kggQbKJJJtIhtRvzUdw2EcXBQz7UKZVN3vuKOrbtcOC4zRlDVwBVWQTB9G-zDwTy7O_5zdNajBHDysTDlGaLQIWyxrJSeNkTzMtRiwCzE3i6f-nhtXsz-QQgVd1LlFWUllRDMz_oJJhvnAGmnO7FdPNqyeTbBViJ96qQQ=s4024" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2546" data-original-width="4024" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcCt3q8suEbfkRPGvTr8kggQbKJJJtIhtRvzUdw2EcXBQz7UKZVN3vuKOrbtcOC4zRlDVwBVWQTB9G-zDwTy7O_5zdNajBHDysTDlGaLQIWyxrJSeNkTzMtRiwCzE3i6f-nhtXsz-QQgVd1LlFWUllRDMz_oJJhvnAGmnO7FdPNqyeTbBViJ96qQQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div>For 19 months (the gestation period for a baby elephant), my beloved warm-water pool at the JCC was closed due to COVID-19 and then installation of a new dehumidifier. When the pool reopened in October, I was often one of just two or three people in it! Water is my natural element, and I sorely miss it when I'm not there.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>NOVEMBER</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigPeTwVUX3Vy2LMVO9mKT9parwW7p60Xhptv1F2J_eeJTmleIRxf3gnwbL4O79d9Yul5209nPdptEXteaNPeM38DboZaYw2n_am1-Jd8HE_QR-V5TVhmS7KGsSzhzLrXaHNf19gdr-nSaPyduwG5Z9lzHVYJQSPzo79kSHbF41Ct6GNg__k7_zoCo=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEigPeTwVUX3Vy2LMVO9mKT9parwW7p60Xhptv1F2J_eeJTmleIRxf3gnwbL4O79d9Yul5209nPdptEXteaNPeM38DboZaYw2n_am1-Jd8HE_QR-V5TVhmS7KGsSzhzLrXaHNf19gdr-nSaPyduwG5Z9lzHVYJQSPzo79kSHbF41Ct6GNg__k7_zoCo=s320" width="240" /></a></div>After sharing its pot with a bunch of California poppies, the ginkgo tree seemed to be rethinking its life on the balcony. The leaves turned crunchy brown and dropped — every last one. "We'll see what happens in a couple of months," I told The Boy. One day in October I noticed new growth, and within 30 days, the tree was celebrating spring. In November. Fine with me! </div><div><br /></div><div><b>DECEMBER</b></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBUlHLmLqpAJDLHMLg0dJxJYJJmzlWj3E-h2avKFc4zCbTWu4YzXRx_zeqUTfWqb98SHEIyUFpWdQhD8hd5W_t-XjmDxLj083dKxGYLiL5JSXZF6hNCjYvVOm16fot_zrtwRllEXmvHokinN2-VKp108mD1FIJF7XdpIRanBpjVtJnKUv4eeCHKj0=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBUlHLmLqpAJDLHMLg0dJxJYJJmzlWj3E-h2avKFc4zCbTWu4YzXRx_zeqUTfWqb98SHEIyUFpWdQhD8hd5W_t-XjmDxLj083dKxGYLiL5JSXZF6hNCjYvVOm16fot_zrtwRllEXmvHokinN2-VKp108mD1FIJF7XdpIRanBpjVtJnKUv4eeCHKj0=s320" width="320" /></a></div>Aren't surprises just the best? Early in December, this beauty showed up in the mail, a gift from my friend (and Pulitzer Prize-winning photographer) J.B. Forbes. The shimmery, bejeweled ornament reminded him of me, he said! I'm in awe. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>ON TO 2022</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I don't believe in New Year's Resolutions, but if I did, this year's would be Stop Saving Anything. Many of us save new clothes, new bed linens, new slippers, new towels, new everything (undies, even!) — and FOR WHAT???? </div><div><br /></div><div>My longtime mantra has been, and remains:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>DON'T POSTPONE JOY!</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I am reminded of this every time I want to call Steve Woolf, who died in July after a very short and not particularly fulfilling retirement. He was happy the last time we spoke, home from the hospital, feeling better, looking forward to better days ahead. That was just three days before his journey on this planet ended. I miss him.</div><div><br /></div><div>Make sure you find some joy today, call people you miss, watch the sun set and carry on. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivCK6ejr4s9OJQwpjGX5XesqJ5GdXTAwAIx9kFFB87INqE1-5dTmgIfZH-uurlU3Dc17w5M8iB6-NE2OeoWQCHqaLEydkI1Qb7Z4kk7MIL4MCEyXVt3lQgDHpvh5_XfcEdxRfMcCmhCGnk7eHV4jWvP6SVmYlswSqCPq_T9yOEhmUL1fLyj2DkBSI=s3088" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivCK6ejr4s9OJQwpjGX5XesqJ5GdXTAwAIx9kFFB87INqE1-5dTmgIfZH-uurlU3Dc17w5M8iB6-NE2OeoWQCHqaLEydkI1Qb7Z4kk7MIL4MCEyXVt3lQgDHpvh5_XfcEdxRfMcCmhCGnk7eHV4jWvP6SVmYlswSqCPq_T9yOEhmUL1fLyj2DkBSI=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /> </div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-41649313509341567072021-12-07T14:23:00.000-08:002021-12-07T14:23:01.829-08:00It's That Time Again! <p>Ho Ho Ho — and all that jazz! </p><p>Though my official Grandmas and Grandkids Christmas Decorating Party is still some days away, I'm auditioning a new piece I bought at a posh discount store (yes, there is such a thing) last week in San Francisco: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivf9qkQGLIYDqua5m8RR_Qx40kcsbtmBcUj9QSt6J5EaLtO1dFrzeqv_q0saOMbUiC-hwFWj0st5VklwnMc88JyrLFZaDAQQcqvsiEY58h_jPJFdQLNu5xrHLJRhjTlLkzjuj9HttzIa0NhPTZnpF4tnNTc8InPxY0xCziPIEKYPXSkLwlTyXWjak=s2730" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2730" data-original-width="1152" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivf9qkQGLIYDqua5m8RR_Qx40kcsbtmBcUj9QSt6J5EaLtO1dFrzeqv_q0saOMbUiC-hwFWj0st5VklwnMc88JyrLFZaDAQQcqvsiEY58h_jPJFdQLNu5xrHLJRhjTlLkzjuj9HttzIa0NhPTZnpF4tnNTc8InPxY0xCziPIEKYPXSkLwlTyXWjak=s320" width="135" /></a></div><p>Why did I buy this? Because I fully expected an Inspector Armand Gamache action figure to come with it, to complete the obvious reference to Three Pines. (Louise Penny fans, you're welcome.) </p><p>No such luck. Then I realized the snow-festooned trees also remind me of winter visits in years past to the Donner-Tahoe area in the Sierra Nevadas. Brrr! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5Wo5kjWwfqI__ptV796AYyzMaCLiHOSYWXdeO_2PnNqxbgGd4L9gKhjLxIq3Oh2VvUNHGJTSkZ1cZDDQv5DcVHNyRyeL8580zYoVxEuU5ivXhJBXiZQVZ93N2z69JTdpnBsiE-aIcJ4f1bQqSzvECafA8vAHXeWcfA3iBfV9aI9_oZ_5eNRc1frQ=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5Wo5kjWwfqI__ptV796AYyzMaCLiHOSYWXdeO_2PnNqxbgGd4L9gKhjLxIq3Oh2VvUNHGJTSkZ1cZDDQv5DcVHNyRyeL8580zYoVxEuU5ivXhJBXiZQVZ93N2z69JTdpnBsiE-aIcJ4f1bQqSzvECafA8vAHXeWcfA3iBfV9aI9_oZ_5eNRc1frQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p>But beautiful! </p><p>Photographing the new addition to my minimalist collection of decorations (most of them fit in one medium-sized bin at the top of the closet) sent me to my phone, where I scrolled through pictures from Christmases Past. I found fun shots of some of my decorations and also those of friends. </p><p>Enjoy — and feel free to duplicate any of these approaches, unless your loyalty to tradition forbids making any changes. I like to mix it up! </p><p>Christmas 2020:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-K0id_Q_vOPHQm1aG6unse7gNG5O1TMXnyDeD3qeq1lVfpFp36OOn81BeS5ShYPpOxUAn16f0RsYjIOQtSIYIdCxdVJRn6Sr5zuyiJAb9KXD8thOpNXdPtvH-QKbB5qVo_U65jMJVhwKEVfIYgIm1r_K1v4U-Z4eV3NygIo0xXdSp-slfsHCpSXc=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-K0id_Q_vOPHQm1aG6unse7gNG5O1TMXnyDeD3qeq1lVfpFp36OOn81BeS5ShYPpOxUAn16f0RsYjIOQtSIYIdCxdVJRn6Sr5zuyiJAb9KXD8thOpNXdPtvH-QKbB5qVo_U65jMJVhwKEVfIYgIm1r_K1v4U-Z4eV3NygIo0xXdSp-slfsHCpSXc=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Christmas 2019:</p><p><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGX05NPoomMqPvzN0TsJ6oUOXl8A_CWTQBXVGcEsDC8-s_GNLxSMf6VCStoPXlDH5CryBEneGiJuykcYyvgHrwqMdG6woJNePvdc4LviDmZFiegv97wW4NyBTASd7QiajqOk5dMVjZA9PW1s_EKOoH_-nZsKCOOZoYkr7_pIc_xPvQdncRMMJk3fc=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="2048" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGX05NPoomMqPvzN0TsJ6oUOXl8A_CWTQBXVGcEsDC8-s_GNLxSMf6VCStoPXlDH5CryBEneGiJuykcYyvgHrwqMdG6woJNePvdc4LviDmZFiegv97wW4NyBTASd7QiajqOk5dMVjZA9PW1s_EKOoH_-nZsKCOOZoYkr7_pIc_xPvQdncRMMJk3fc=w327-h216" width="327" /></a></p><p>Christmas 2018: </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRhCfQwsMjHNaRM-dXY3IAAiG5u9rrG09lo7_DYfzxEKgpFzXcAswvFEYldnuX3aVaarBjUf-8FRWhO4g65VaTGOzfBBbP0k_wJ9hujrVlrVb0m0wtngAB3i6RN6MJxWTd700N4uQWTtqHaOns91I62tRqvyyXwqm9Ne9c-d61Vs6vDWgeGhg9lUk=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1147" data-original-width="2048" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRhCfQwsMjHNaRM-dXY3IAAiG5u9rrG09lo7_DYfzxEKgpFzXcAswvFEYldnuX3aVaarBjUf-8FRWhO4g65VaTGOzfBBbP0k_wJ9hujrVlrVb0m0wtngAB3i6RN6MJxWTd700N4uQWTtqHaOns91I62tRqvyyXwqm9Ne9c-d61Vs6vDWgeGhg9lUk=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> <p></p><p>Christmas 2017:</p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTdY8UHLmk9g4sgKyaJ1P3zDuS_T417gWNAo8sjQO1_FW1J4cuvj8LEQOpwcIDoRn8u7kA15s8f1sST9ZzLCEICzZtzXxm1gvJ2HkGZBcK2BgvxNMqV73pN0m2m1jFzKHFNv7jzXAuHkubi46eaJlb5BG50TQMeQQK4fduP_nCuWSE_wZC-whducQ=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTdY8UHLmk9g4sgKyaJ1P3zDuS_T417gWNAo8sjQO1_FW1J4cuvj8LEQOpwcIDoRn8u7kA15s8f1sST9ZzLCEICzZtzXxm1gvJ2HkGZBcK2BgvxNMqV73pN0m2m1jFzKHFNv7jzXAuHkubi46eaJlb5BG50TQMeQQK4fduP_nCuWSE_wZC-whducQ=s320" width="240" /></a></p><p>Christmas 2016: </p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqhoK3UlUQyilEcxJK7gGK6CdDTLXgph6L0P19P2L9X_FSLhjuFzASMko9ydyAquzzBlCsbf-0B7oul5CNGRVrvpuQ84SnyGssef9mBfufvUlh-GNWsjUihwLsOpKi8IOCUK4hTAD1HwZp-8t1b_EqFBILrWnqFfnLSkTwnwaVLHh8XzKaTMtxYCQ=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqhoK3UlUQyilEcxJK7gGK6CdDTLXgph6L0P19P2L9X_FSLhjuFzASMko9ydyAquzzBlCsbf-0B7oul5CNGRVrvpuQ84SnyGssef9mBfufvUlh-GNWsjUihwLsOpKi8IOCUK4hTAD1HwZp-8t1b_EqFBILrWnqFfnLSkTwnwaVLHh8XzKaTMtxYCQ=s320" width="240" /></a></p><p>Christmas 2015: </p><p>Cheating a bit here — this was a New Year's Eve Party, which I attended wrapped in a 9-foot-long feather boa and a fancy feather fascinator. Still have the topper, though the boa withered away after decades of parties. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQBXAaBx1-uVdDAqosUOh1JCJgAvbyVPGJVwvbL4F2rUwnqKgIM5ld58l6_Psj1fwnBWeUdZQZuFy2IF6BcMyEOgjeD0k1qrbUKwN96-tHiU91ofcTCYUrz_SfaXQyEquMF0YsIsjCkSzcBNVUY5a4MXPnQKxzra07Xue3zSSzbcRPz1rcDAMS-fE=s1201" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="930" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhQBXAaBx1-uVdDAqosUOh1JCJgAvbyVPGJVwvbL4F2rUwnqKgIM5ld58l6_Psj1fwnBWeUdZQZuFy2IF6BcMyEOgjeD0k1qrbUKwN96-tHiU91ofcTCYUrz_SfaXQyEquMF0YsIsjCkSzcBNVUY5a4MXPnQKxzra07Xue3zSSzbcRPz1rcDAMS-fE=s320" width="248" /></a></p><p>Christmas 2014:</p><p>Snapped this at Vierra and Friends in Cole Valley, where my friend Lison decorates her salon in a Big Way! </p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizmyAhEqj25RDV_PXJlwI4HvD6Y8Wiu9IceyKJROvmE2HpxGki7whZ6929i7K93-XlF8xnMGC3UlEnU06xdSEJJs9zt-dS6W9JE-j_twZPreibwL7nBIWVlQHva7o674zvzKHjd2aj5yglx4gSU42qHS4rvT-79PW2qPvkMP4OlpZVMMwMu0QwfSQ=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1879" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEizmyAhEqj25RDV_PXJlwI4HvD6Y8Wiu9IceyKJROvmE2HpxGki7whZ6929i7K93-XlF8xnMGC3UlEnU06xdSEJJs9zt-dS6W9JE-j_twZPreibwL7nBIWVlQHva7o674zvzKHjd2aj5yglx4gSU42qHS4rvT-79PW2qPvkMP4OlpZVMMwMu0QwfSQ=s320" width="294" /></a></p><p>Christmas 2013:</p><p><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgq9MeSORhRdblxF_6YRmL_ecbKne3N9D5dh56yLBb6nhu_VVp9Yt3nc5g8HiZWlYTacjQ_rKmS3VXSbSDgNnaL91dg9ZKths_SBt8g7BNBAyFOsrZdsPCvz8QcRWBpR2KxMMNLk-TN21IVlj3-uvqeA-CX0O4OSlXnpFGsZ5Z7-O034qmVPzgFQSE=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgq9MeSORhRdblxF_6YRmL_ecbKne3N9D5dh56yLBb6nhu_VVp9Yt3nc5g8HiZWlYTacjQ_rKmS3VXSbSDgNnaL91dg9ZKths_SBt8g7BNBAyFOsrZdsPCvz8QcRWBpR2KxMMNLk-TN21IVlj3-uvqeA-CX0O4OSlXnpFGsZ5Z7-O034qmVPzgFQSE=s320" width="240" /></a> </p><p>Christmas 2012:</p><p>With my Girl Cousins at Karen's house, celebrating Christmas with my dear Aunt Betty. She's gone, but we remember! <span> </span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQrat1QHxYo74K2p2QrSmD3wujvwsZx44VMZZ3WL-aPB7_6maZ_q0DU2AisA9tvlZyYB6GkQD3H4a4taLJlkqnpZVQTIgIS1x6T9fAd_VEuZMOcQ7eqVY7QCdbx6vTdQsH_jBeMaXDnk4_rATJ4_vJeTPgSNoF07NkuH5aVRuTwxlcxBVnAdIpKI4=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1591" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjQrat1QHxYo74K2p2QrSmD3wujvwsZx44VMZZ3WL-aPB7_6maZ_q0DU2AisA9tvlZyYB6GkQD3H4a4taLJlkqnpZVQTIgIS1x6T9fAd_VEuZMOcQ7eqVY7QCdbx6vTdQsH_jBeMaXDnk4_rATJ4_vJeTPgSNoF07NkuH5aVRuTwxlcxBVnAdIpKI4=s320" width="249" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">HAPPY DECORATING — AND MERRY CHRISTMAS!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-66402228923641948852021-11-13T12:47:00.005-08:002021-12-03T17:02:21.429-08:00Untold Tales from a Food Writer's Tasty Past<p>An apple pie for Joel Grey, harsh feedback on lettuce preferences, eating gourmet chocolates with the French chef who crafted them. Also, insider info on strawberry-rhubarb pie, too much port for one afternoon, the joys of golden kiwi revealed. Oh, and a frozen pork chop.</p><p>These highlights from my days as a newspaper food writer and later, a restaurant critic, bubbled up after I mentioned to a friend that I now have a dream job. Read on.</p><p>Just over a year ago, a gifted caterer (<a href="http://justeatitsf.com">justeatitsf.com</a>) who pivoted to home delivery service because of the pandemic needed a writer/editor to help with web copy, email blasts and social media posts. At the time, I needed to revive my waning interest in cooking or resign myself to eating food primarily prepared at the local grocery. </p><p>When she said she wasn’t sure she could afford to hire me, I asked if she would feed me in exchange for help with words — and she agreed! I’ve been well fed (and happy) ever since. Let’s hear it for bartering! </p><p>Here's a photo from my Thanksgiving meal last year:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-64H5sqS4xKQ/YZAjBQwPQuI/AAAAAAAABRE/RONNEw1q8HI11N09oYq5GVu2q_-Zy4NxACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Thanksgiving2020.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-64H5sqS4xKQ/YZAjBQwPQuI/AAAAAAAABRE/RONNEw1q8HI11N09oYq5GVu2q_-Zy4NxACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Thanksgiving2020.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>Feast now on some of the highlights (and delicious lowlights) from my past:</p><p>Interviewing Chef Pierre Franey as we sipped fresh banana malts at a local eatery.</p><p>A disgruntled restaurant owner who tried to get me fired because I wrote that I didn’t hate iceberg lettuce. (I do hate frisée, but no one cares.)</p><p>Hearing from home cooks I’d featured in the newspaper that they’d laminated and framed the articles and hung them on their kitchen walls. </p><p>A sly restaurant owner who told me he had a special menu for regular customers, and then got angry when I wrote about that.</p><p>Struggling to cut into a pork chop at a restaurant I was reviewing — it was frozen. </p><p>Sampling a box of Chef Michel Guérard’s new line of gourmet chocolates while I interviewed him. </p><p>Choking down a tuna roll at an interview with a sushi chef because I am not (and never will be) a fan of raw fish. The photographer with me deftly palmed his, slipped it into his jacket pocket (eww…) and told the chef it tasted great. </p><p>A distinguished restaurant owner who indicated he had recognized me by first kissing my hand, then starting up my arm. </p><p>Holding a Pie Baking Party with friends so I could learn to bake an apple pie. I wrote a story that included all the recipes. (After some practice runs, I did manage to make one perfect apple pie, which I delivered to Joel Grey at the theater where he was performing in “Cabaret.” He liked that pie so much, he told me to quit my day job.) </p><p>Learning from a restaurant owner what goes into the price of a meal, including the ingredients, the prep time, the rent or mortgage, the gas and electricity bills, linen service, salaries — it’s amazing we don’t pay more!</p><p>Getting a personal call from a favorite chef every spring when he was making strawberry-rhubarb pie. </p><p>An arrogant restaurant owner who told me he didn’t want anyone over 35 eating at his place, and then got angry when I wrote about that. </p><p>Hearing a restaurant/bar owner’s story about the night Allen Ginsberg came in, sat in front of the fireplace and recited from his poem “Howl.”</p><p>Taking heat from a deli owner who flinched when I asked if he had any lean pastrami. (Still sorry!)</p><p>Trying to sober up fast in order to drive home safely from a port tasting.</p><p>Following a truck on an unfamiliar road and suddenly realizing I was in line at a highway weigh station instead of on an exit ramp. (At least we hadn’t eaten yet!) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWQ3zVi5o3OLdmR5q1xYbugb1rhBMROkRuydh67_bYURCXxF5uSzzXe_M-5jlK5D4VnepzcTG9GmpJTlkVixuFVYpGaR2BPBcELPT_ongV_aJh9JAyc6EUy3BUX2r1dff8d5RhXdUu5XL82dhJmDU28u-gEi1TlIOv3jWhNoIt9unFlP-kSf7fnUM=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1645" data-original-width="2048" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiWQ3zVi5o3OLdmR5q1xYbugb1rhBMROkRuydh67_bYURCXxF5uSzzXe_M-5jlK5D4VnepzcTG9GmpJTlkVixuFVYpGaR2BPBcELPT_ongV_aJh9JAyc6EUy3BUX2r1dff8d5RhXdUu5XL82dhJmDU28u-gEi1TlIOv3jWhNoIt9unFlP-kSf7fnUM=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p>Interviewing food writer and self-described “fruit detective” David Karp, who informed me at length about some of the 40 known varieties of kiwi. (If you haven’t yet, try the golden — tastes like sunshine!) </p><p>Finding my review proudly posted alongside other favorable coverage in a restaurant’s bathroom. </p><p>Yep, those were the days! I also remember abandoning my restaurant beat for a week on September 11, 2001, so I could be back on the streets reporting the news. I told my editor: “I am not writing this week about whether I liked my salad.” </p><p>I treasure the hundreds of interviews with restaurant owners, chefs, wine mavens, cookbook authors and also the readers in metropolitan St. Louis who willingly shared their recipes. I met so many interesting people, and I learned so very much over the years. </p><p>And that’s why today I’m able to work for food!</p><p>P.S. Bonus: I also write for a Master Mixologist (<a href="http://msquaredspirits.com">msquaredspirits.com</a>) whose posh craft cocktails are now available in 39 states. He shows up at my door now and then with alcoholic rewards! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TA7jx8ppv68/YZAiyzZ9jLI/AAAAAAAABRA/X1pLfD7aHHklTo9OSsvub90j7ngkczLBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/MSquared.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TA7jx8ppv68/YZAiyzZ9jLI/AAAAAAAABRA/X1pLfD7aHHklTo9OSsvub90j7ngkczLBQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/MSquared.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-842083583504897272021-10-10T18:37:00.000-07:002021-10-10T18:37:07.479-07:00Couch Hunting — With Lobster<p>Insider Tip: When shopping for a couch, never judge the firmness of the seat by sitting on the middle cushion. Why? Because everyone who comes in the store sits there, and the center cushions wear down more quickly than they would in your living room. </p><p>How do I know this?</p><p>“I need to do some couch shopping,” my friend Julia said one day. I told her I wanted to go along, because I needed a new piece of furniture as well. My beloved chaise, bought a decade ago at the Crate and Barrel Outlet in Berkeley, was no longer working for me and The Boy. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t20VI_kKY4s/YWOMhyf8o8I/AAAAAAAABQI/LGlDK5VqYeA9P3MNcAOoM_H_MXtrBiuyACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/chaise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t20VI_kKY4s/YWOMhyf8o8I/AAAAAAAABQI/LGlDK5VqYeA9P3MNcAOoM_H_MXtrBiuyACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/chaise.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p>When he was an infant, the two of us fit on it just great. Cuddling there while we read or watched “The Octonauts” together was equally splendid all through the toddler years and even beyond. But when we were reunited after the pandemic eased, we discovered he’d grown and takes up more space than before. We managed for a while, but then I started pondering replacing the narrow chaise with a chair and a half. </p><p>Over several weeks, Julia and I drove to nine furniture stores in the North Bay and the South Bay. We sat on many, many couches together, and I also tried on assorted chairs and a half. We learned how couches are built, we learned how cushions are made and we learned about different types of cushion fillings. </p><p>At the Sunrise Home Furniture Store in San Rafael, we learned that two resident cats had the run of the place — and we were charmed. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AhvvGlgk8lc/YWOMYiReKdI/AAAAAAAABQE/LzEHYYFtIbUOX2LcKwSzJqNAwgJo3UutACLcBGAsYHQ/s2016/furniturecat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AhvvGlgk8lc/YWOMYiReKdI/AAAAAAAABQE/LzEHYYFtIbUOX2LcKwSzJqNAwgJo3UutACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/furniturecat.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>At each store, we also learned that few couches were actually available. Though Julia could order just about any couch she fancied in any fabric and any size, delivery would be delayed for six to eight months. Furniture manufacturers had shut down during the early days of the pandemic, we were told, and when they opened up again, they were confronted with a global shortage of foam, a key ingredient in couches. Also, at most stores, bargains were hard to find. “Nothing is on sale right now because everyone is looking to buy furniture,” confided one bold saleswoman. </p><p>Early in July, I was ready to make a purchase. But what to buy?</p><p>I revisited my initial goal of acquiring a chair and a half. On a whim, I measured the wall and briefly considered buying something bigger, maybe a loveseat or small full-sized couch. I also recalled my great enthusiasm for a leather Bennett Duo recliner that I'd curled up in at a La-Z-Boy store, though the price was high and the chair fit just one. Then I reminded myself the whole point of shopping had been to find something that The Boy and I both fit in comfortably for however much longer he is willing to snuggle with his grandma. </p><p>Late one Sunday night, I scrolled once more through the options on the Crate and Barrel website. Way down at the bottom I spied a chair and a half that was on sale for $300 less than full price! I promptly put it in my cart. When the store opened the next day, I walked in and asked to see the relevant fabric swatch (truffle) and to sit one more time on a floor model in the Lounge II line. The salesman said if I placed an order that day, I could get my chair by Thanksgiving. Probably. Maybe Christmas. </p><p>I told him I’d seen one available right now on line — and on sale. Calmly, quietly, he told me as kindly as possible that no furniture was on sale. Period. I persisted, so he went to his computer to check it out. He ran back across the showroom floor, his words spilling out: “I found it! I found it, and there is just one in the warehouse," he said. "If you want it, or even if you think you want it, I wouldn’t wait.” </p><p>I wanted it. On my phone, I found the chair and a half still in my cart, and said aloud that I’d just push the PayPal button so the chair soon would be mine. With a look of horror, the salesman drew back and intoned, “Please don’t break my heart!” </p><p>When I complimented him on both his sense of drama and his salesmanship, he explained that every day, customers came into the store, sat on several couches and went home to think about what to buy. “Then they make the purchase on line,” he said, “and I get no commission.” Of course I told him I would let him sell me the chair, which was delivered just days later — a bit of a miracle, in July 2021, as new furniture stories go.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eMZz7BbK44I/YWOMt7M8zjI/AAAAAAAABQM/Ql6p9klqgNwY_lEO3oKptvFetDL16uqGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/NewChair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-eMZz7BbK44I/YWOMt7M8zjI/AAAAAAAABQM/Ql6p9klqgNwY_lEO3oKptvFetDL16uqGgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/NewChair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Curious about the lobster reference in the headline? </p><p>Julia and I carefully timed each of our furniture shopping trips to include lunch out. By chance, on our first two expeditions we ate at restaurants that featured lobster dishes on the menu, and we indulged. On our third trip, we went all out, purposefully driving to the New England Lobster Market & Eatery in Burlingame. </p><p>Furniture shopping, especially with friends, has never seemed arduous to me. Add a lobster roll or lobster ravioli — and the experience is even better. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-27808354186663986002021-08-28T12:03:00.000-07:002021-08-28T12:03:16.197-07:00When Sea Lions Go to Lunch<p>In the vast expanse that is the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary (449 square miles wide and twice as deep as the Grand Canyon), sea lions cluster atop organic debris and go in search of feeding whales. When this haphazard-looking flotilla finds them, their buffet is officially open. As the whales feast on anchovies and sardines, stirring up the water, the sea lions grab their share. Seabirds soon arrive to join the party.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sNssgh2R5Ck/YSqBWHr2ngI/AAAAAAAABOA/ZXx30PS5iWwSl40uBm7f415zonQIOND1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Flotilla.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1363" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sNssgh2R5Ck/YSqBWHr2ngI/AAAAAAAABOA/ZXx30PS5iWwSl40uBm7f415zonQIOND1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Flotilla.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>All this goes on as we wrestle with the Delta variant, rail about politics, weep over 100-plus fires burning in the West and watch in horror as floods and heat waves wreak havoc elsewhere. Whales have been on the planet for 50 million years, still surviving even though we’ve attempted to slaughter every last one of them, we’ve neglected to reduce ocean acidification caused by the climate crisis and we continue to dump toxic materials in the sea. </p><p>So far, Whale Nation endures. </p><p>In celebration of that — and of the 40th anniversary of my first whale-watch trip — I headed for Monterey Bay from my home in San Francisco to board a boat, my first big adventure out since March 2020. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SLJKcY1PzsY/YSqBdyHWmVI/AAAAAAAABOI/utCCy5TEhvILK3JOZh-5jIKN1J-dPyArQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/SeaGoddess.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1226" data-original-width="2048" height="192" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SLJKcY1PzsY/YSqBdyHWmVI/AAAAAAAABOI/utCCy5TEhvILK3JOZh-5jIKN1J-dPyArQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/SeaGoddess.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Humpback whales spouted, breached and showed off their beautiful 10-foot-wide scalloped tails as they dived. We also saw a mola mola (ocean sunfish), plenty of jellies, seabirds galore and dozens of those clever sea lions. The sun sparkled on the water as passengers, masked to protect us from one another, oohed and aahed at nature’s display, even as we lamented that the whales cavorted closer to another boat than ours.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WS84VE-ysIw/YSqDUON2J4I/AAAAAAAABOo/m6CCU7MMYEsHTWc7iKk7LOwx6EfgfuZUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Fluke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1363" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WS84VE-ysIw/YSqDUON2J4I/AAAAAAAABOo/m6CCU7MMYEsHTWc7iKk7LOwx6EfgfuZUwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Fluke.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qff0PTRZ-98/YSqBoMD3MDI/AAAAAAAABOQ/3T8QoC0wgYgR6MveEy7SyAGL4iSlnv_LQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/TwoHumpbacks.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1363" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qff0PTRZ-98/YSqBoMD3MDI/AAAAAAAABOQ/3T8QoC0wgYgR6MveEy7SyAGL4iSlnv_LQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/TwoHumpbacks.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sWp1HXds0Ng/YSqB8JyDMLI/AAAAAAAABOc/Hi02tOquStoKK1-3iCR_T0KuQyGouH0NACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/MolaMola.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="1363" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sWp1HXds0Ng/YSqB8JyDMLI/AAAAAAAABOc/Hi02tOquStoKK1-3iCR_T0KuQyGouH0NACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/MolaMola.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>The evening before the whale watch, a friend and I attended a different kind of dinner party. Just before dusk, we drove to Moss Landing State Beach in time to see thousands of shorebirds chowing down as half a dozen photographers documented the noisy scene. Caspian terns, plovers, long-billed curlew and more than 300 other species feed there. Brown pelicans soared overhead and also assembled on the bank as harbor seals frolicked in the water.</p><p>Earlier, along the Salinas River, we saw a great white egret that towered over dozens of smaller birds feeding on the mudflats. My friend walked up and over the dunes and spotted an otter in the sea. </p><p>Spending time in nature reminds me this remarkable parallel universe is always available when I’m feeling “out of tune,” a phrase from William Wordsworth’s poem "The World Is Too Much with Us." In it, Wordsworth chides readers for their materialism and for distancing themselves from nature. Some things never change — he wrote that in 1802. </p><p>In addition to reconnecting with wildlife on my short getaway, I gobbled up panko-encrusted sand dabs at The Haute Enchilada in Moss Landing, fresh snapper at Duarte’s in Pescadero and cheesecake at Swanton’s Berry Farm, where I also scored three pints of Chandler strawberries, my favorite. As for anchovies and sardines — well, I’ll leave those for the flotillas of sea lions and their majestic dining companions. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5MYgmQvjKd0/YSqByqNu4qI/AAAAAAAABOU/S4G46fmGtpAD5x44a49xp8UuO7wn2P4awCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_3907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1539" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5MYgmQvjKd0/YSqByqNu4qI/AAAAAAAABOU/S4G46fmGtpAD5x44a49xp8UuO7wn2P4awCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_3907.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-62255998171367214212021-04-12T16:57:00.001-07:002021-04-12T16:57:49.248-07:00Car Talk: New? Used? Calm Down?<p>Something new, something shiny, something thrilling. After spending a year saving money — nowhere to go and nothing to do, what with the fear of COVID-19 looming large — I am in the mood to shop for something. Something big.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nOGx1q_O3pA/YHTWrD5gb5I/AAAAAAAABJ0/1Lb4GDmDI4c68KmlX7TgkJWT3czef0pnACLcBGAsYHQ/s1518/Babar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="1518" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nOGx1q_O3pA/YHTWrD5gb5I/AAAAAAAABJ0/1Lb4GDmDI4c68KmlX7TgkJWT3czef0pnACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Babar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>“I’m buying new clothes,” a friend said. I’m not. </p><p>My closet is full of clothes that will seem new when (if) I move on from sweatpants and sweatshirts. While looking for an errant sock in the laundry basket last week, I caught a glimpse of a favorite red ikat print shirt hanging in the closet. I whispered, “I miss you! Soon!” </p><p>I need no clothes, I need no earrings (hope the holes are still open) and I certainly need no furniture here in my junior one-bedroom apartment. </p><p>What I want is a car. Specifically, a Subaru Crosstrek. Whether I need one is debatable. Because I enjoy researching tempting ideas before making any decision, I’ve sought information from several people. Some of it has been useful. </p><p><b>Free Advice Is Plentiful</b></p><p>My mechanic said (in the nicest possible way) that I’m crazy to abandon the car I have. My Cousin the Car Salesman presented pros and cons. My son offered slightly different pros and cons. My insurance agent refused to weigh in, but provided some numbers. My financial adviser provided more numbers. Several friends — some own old cars and some brand new — heard me out and voiced support for whatever I decide. </p><p>Stay close to the phone, as I may be calling for your thoughts soon. </p><p>My Subaru Legacy Wagon is 15 years old, with 70,066 miles on it. It’s in fine shape, mechanically speaking. (Thanks, Dirk.) Yes, there are some scrapes and peeling spots on the exterior. </p><p>Why ponder something new? </p><p>My car has no safety features. It does have me, and I have a superlative driving record. However, I’ve read that people my age are subject to slower response times while driving. Plus, in spite of spending time in the same dense fog that helps the coastal redwoods grow so very tall, I am shorter than I used to be. I would like a car that allows me to sit up higher. </p><p>(Once, I convinced a doctor to alter my sad, short height on my Official Chart to allow me some dignity. Because he’s shorter now too, he did.)</p><p><b>So Many Decisions!</b></p><p>If I decide to pursue something new and shiny, that’s only the beginning. Then I have to decide whether I want a new car or a used car. If I buy, should I use some of my savings to pay cash for the full amount to avoid interest or put down a wad of money to lower the monthly payment? </p><p>I haven’t forgotten that I already have a car, so I investigated what it might be worth. One online source said I could expect between $700 and $6.500. That’s quite a range! Once I filled out the calculator, I got an estimate of about $4,800. I got no phone number for anyone ready to pay that. </p><p>Regarding used cars, I’ve also read that because car manufacturers shut down early in the pandemic, the demand is huge right now for good used cars. One writer recommended waiting until fall to shop, when dealers will have more new cars available and presumably the price of used cars will drop. Right now, he reported, people are paying “silly” prices for used vehicles. </p><p>Maybe I should lease a car. For a long time, conventional wisdom held that leasing a car was a waste of money. It’s like renting, people said. You pay and pay and pay, and at the end you have nothing. As a homeowner, I heard that repeatedly. For over a decade, I’ve been a renter — and I love it. I pay and pay and pay — and I get to live in San Francisco! Owning a home here is not possible for me. Heck, I probably couldn’t afford a one-car garage, much less a car to put in it. </p><p>One article I read said leasing a car is not a bad idea for older adults on a fixed income. Yes, you pay and pay and pay, but you pay less than a typical car payment for a vehicle you bought, and you don’t have to touch your savings. That said, leasing a car comes with lots of fees and rules, and I get the feeling the house (the dealership) always wins. </p><p>Whether I choose to buy or lease, my cousin says I must visit three dealerships to compare deals. My one concern about that is that I may be susceptible to a hard sell if I fall in love with a car on the lot. My son has another concern. He asked, “Have you driven a Crosstrek?” </p><p><b>An Alternate to Test Drives</b></p><p>Ummm — no. I have been a passenger in one, but I realize that doesn’t count. To remedy that — and to hold off on my forays to dealerships — I opened an account with Zipcar (<a href="https://www.zipcar.com/san-francisco">https://www.zipcar.com/san-francisco</a>), a short-term car-sharing rental service. People here who don’t own cars use Zipcars all the time, as do people who need pickup trucks or vans just for an afternoon. </p><p>Zipcars provides newer models of all kinds of cars, so I can test drive several models, giving them an opportunity to prove themselves more worthy than the car I want. Or think I want. One friend suggested that if I go for drives in new Zipcars now and then, maybe that will get wanting a new car out of my system. </p><p>Last time I was besieged by fantasies of a new car, I thought I wanted one of those little Fiat 500e models. Adorable! Apparently, the car flunked safety tests and now Fiat doesn’t make them anymore. Over the years, I have owned a splendid 1966 candy apple red Mustang, a series of boring family cars, a horrid Ford Escort, a feisty Sidekick, an assortment of Hondas, an immense Oldsmobile and my current Subaru Legacy Wagon. </p><p>Two weeks ago, when I saw the property manager at my building in the garage, he called out, “I like your car – I learned to drive on one of those!” He’s a grown man, with a son.</p><p>Isn’t that an indication it’s time for me to get a different car? </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-70700242779087086042021-01-10T18:10:00.002-08:002021-01-10T20:26:27.036-08:00When Fear Overcomes Loathing<p>Where were you on Wednesday, January 6, when the U.S. Capitol was breached by armed dissidents who happen to be our fellow citizens?</p><p>I was up, showered and dressed in time to watch the counting of the electoral votes, something I’d never viewed before. Just as the process began, I turned on the television. I turned it off 13 hours later, and staggered to my bed, stunned by all I had witnessed. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LVCuL7ZAkV8/X_uum7QaCJI/AAAAAAAABHk/FFom-1TD4Z8Y0Txo1OgIxFLfFz1JPfxgQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Jan6Breach.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LVCuL7ZAkV8/X_uum7QaCJI/AAAAAAAABHk/FFom-1TD4Z8Y0Txo1OgIxFLfFz1JPfxgQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Jan6Breach.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>At 11:54 a.m. (PST) on Jan. 6, I texted my son to say, “Hope you have the news on. Thugs have breached the Capitol.” Later, I remembered that he also was my first phone call on the morning of Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001. Another key global moment, long before I had a child, was Friday, Nov. 22, 1963, when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas.</p><p>These chilling events are prominent markers in our lives. We know where we were, and we will never forget. </p><p>Over the past few months, I’ve referred to the months and years before March 2020 as “The Before Times,” when many of us in the U.S. were still ignorant about COVID-19. Then, I had the great privilege of spending Thursday afternoons and evenings with my grandchild. Once a week, I gathered with three friends to play word games or attempt to learn mahjong. Routinely, I went to the theater, to baseball games and out for lunch or cocktails. Friends from across the country came to visit, and we toured my favorites spots in San Francisco.</p><p><b>Reflections on Life Since March 2020</b></p><p>By March 10, all that was over. Since then, with few exceptions, I’ve stayed home. At first, my circle of friends thought we’d be restricted for two, maybe three, months. We gamely learned to spray the mail with Lysol and to let packages sit for 24 to 48 hours before opening them. On rare trips to the grocery, we bought extra toilet paper or bags of flour or bottled water, whatever we feared most doing without. We perfected porch drop-offs on our friends’ birthdays and debated how to form limited “pods” based on the size of our social circles. </p><p>We washed our hands until our skin started to peel. We canceled previously imperative monthly haircuts and mani/pedis and we abandoned physical therapy appointments. We assembled mask wardrobes in case we needed to see the dermatologist or do our laundry in a communal space, we wondered why we’d ever thought we needed to enhance pale eyebrows and we abandoned dress pants. Some of us even apologized to lonely sweaters hanging in our closets. </p><p>We worked and socialized on line. We paid groceries to deliver our food. “Eating out” most often meant curbside pick-up at our favorite local eateries. We grandparents heard tales of woe from parents with youngsters now locked out of their schools and privately we wept because we couldn’t step in to help.</p><p>As the months dragged on, some early precautions were deemed unnecessary and some new restrictions were imposed. Small businesses closed and large ones resorted to communicating with customers via online “chats” with ignorant bots. Restaurants and specialty food stores closed. Neighborhood shops begged us to help them, and we did, but so many ended up shuttered anyway. </p><p>Countless people across the country lost their jobs, their homes, their food security — and many lost their health and even their lives. As of Jan. 10, more than 22,100,000 cases of the coronavirus have been reported to the Centers for Disease Control and 371,084 people in the U.S. have died of the terrifying disease. We’ll likely never know the exact numbers, because many early cases were tagged as bouts of pneumonia or the flu. Also, at one point the President ruled that hospitals were not to report cases or deaths to the CDC because the numbers made him look bad. </p><p><b>Hope for "The After Times" Now Recedes</b></p><div>In the past 10 months we’ve learned to assess how much risk we each are willing to take. Friends who choose to do more may concern us, but most of us blame no one who chooses to do less. “Stay safe,” we urge one another as we make a point to look for, find and treasure small moments of beauty and perform random acts of kindness. </div><p>Because of all that, right up to Jan. 5, I was eager to get vaccinated and looked forward to “The After Times” with hope. Then, on Jan. 6, I chose to bear witness to everything that unfolded in Washington, D.C. Now, four days later, I find that those startling images of domestic terrorists invading the U.S. Capitol have suppressed some of that hope.</p><p>In news articles I’ve read, some members of the mob said they had no recourse, because no one listens to them or their concerns. Some of them said they wanted to see Mike Pence hanged. Some of them said that in spite of no evidence whatsoever they still believe the election was “stolen.” We know that with help from Russia, the 2016 election was stolen, yet those of us who were upset about the outcome did not take up weapons and storm the Capitol. </p><p>What we don’t know yet is how to fully process what happened Jan. 6 because it's far too soon to have a full perspective. Eventually, the truth behind the many systemic failures that made the attack possible will be uncovered. Assessments will be made and the events will be recorded in history, and I look forward to reading how the events of that day are presented. </p><p>Meanwhile, figurative storm clouds are gathering and more violence is predicted. Wherever you may be over the next 10 days — stay safe. “The After Times” aren’t here yet. </p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-66188393683832834012020-12-29T14:26:00.001-08:002020-12-29T16:11:08.369-08:00LOOKING BACK, MOVING FORWARD<p>Farewell, once and for all, to the year that my gray hair began to turn white. And what of it? It's okay. </p><p>Really, everything is okay. Binge-watching reruns of "Home Town" is okay, embracing Don't Get Dressed Day more often is okay, quitting books that annoy me half-way through is okay, passing time playing Scrabble on line is okay. </p><p>Everything is okay, because we've all been tasked with restructuring and restricting our very lives as we continue to cope with a global pandemic, and we're just making it up as we go along. That's a big burden that has resulted in painful losses large and small. We know now we are never going back to "normal," and in so many ways, that has to be okay too. Many writers have elaborated on the many consciousness-raising events our country has experienced this year, and I can only hope we learn from looking back as we move forward. </p><p>Moments of laughter, moments of fear and moments of gratitude all have been part of my experience of 2020. Like so many others, I've repeatedly fended off a looming, leaden mental heaviness. Sometimes I've fought off tears. Other times, I've given in to them. But this year also reinvigorated my belief that living in the present, no matter how troubling that present may be, is a direct path to acknowledging joy. even when the best thing about a whole day is a plate of sliced tomatoes. (See August.) </p><p>Here are snapshots from some "present moments" in my year. Don't expect glorious travel photos, because I haven't been anywhere except to the edge of the continent from time to time, where I watch waves endlessly roll in with no care whatsoever for what I perceive as my urgent concerns. I can always count on the Pacific Ocean for an important attitude adjustment!</p><p><b>JANUARY 2020</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8b3cDkq2P-8/X-uTfy7aiII/AAAAAAAABGs/i4wj2R_8OhUu6Ip921EQ0truECFyGjjzACPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogMolly.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8b3cDkq2P-8/X-uTfy7aiII/AAAAAAAABGs/i4wj2R_8OhUu6Ip921EQ0truECFyGjjzACPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogMolly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Meet Molly Ivins, my Texas mammillaria cactus. (Ivins was prickly too.) The plant produces small red fruits that resemble chili peppers, but not very many or very often. She bloomed in January, for the first time in four years. (Spoiler alert: She bloomed again this month.) </p><p><b>FEBRUARY 2020</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MLHnX05vARQ/X-uTcpP5HWI/AAAAAAAABGg/8kLN7FTN94459DbOzt_ilCI-xigYvDTkwCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogFeb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1633" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MLHnX05vARQ/X-uTcpP5HWI/AAAAAAAABGg/8kLN7FTN94459DbOzt_ilCI-xigYvDTkwCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogFeb.jpg" /></a></div>At a lecture at the Jewish Community Center, I met Richard Powers, author of "The Overstory," and we discovered that we both are in awe of ginkgo trees. <p></p><p><b>MARCH 2020</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3tynGrLU_s4/X-uTe2YWsXI/AAAAAAAABGs/IQxIkGJW0eIOpverBjf1ghFDWU_iI_NyACPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogMarch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3tynGrLU_s4/X-uTe2YWsXI/AAAAAAAABGs/IQxIkGJW0eIOpverBjf1ghFDWU_iI_NyACPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogMarch.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Blissfully unaware of What Was To Come, early in March my Full Moon Cocktail group ventured downtown to the Old Ship Saloon, where I had my first taste of Pisco Punch, created in San Francisco in the 1870s. (See my April 14 blog post for details.) Two weeks later, San Francisco was the first major city to shut down to slow the spread of the coronavirus. </p><p><b>APRIL 2020</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JJTVYKOsnPc/X-uTcDsfTlI/AAAAAAAABGg/CcwF8mzJa4YBZ0nkfp9tRNSdRAuN6nQtwCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogApril.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JJTVYKOsnPc/X-uTcDsfTlI/AAAAAAAABGg/CcwF8mzJa4YBZ0nkfp9tRNSdRAuN6nQtwCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogApril.jpg" /></a></div><p>By April, I was excelling at sheltering in place, tucked under my glorious handmade throw. (Not handmade by me — I make only paragraphs.) The novelty of staying in wore off soon after, but as a senior (and therefore at risk) I've stuck to the rules, with one big exception. (Read on.) </p><p><b>MAY 2020</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fzZv2lPwe1A/X-uTffle2mI/AAAAAAAABGs/IwcHQreJjpYpX0ZUOtW__TsK6lYX2Ux-wCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogMay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fzZv2lPwe1A/X-uTffle2mI/AAAAAAAABGs/IwcHQreJjpYpX0ZUOtW__TsK6lYX2Ux-wCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogMay.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>After two and a half-years of lingering at the bottom, suddenly my name shot up to the top of a waiting list for a unit at an apartment building for people 62 and older. Many people ahead of me on the list declined to even consider moving. Was I still interested? YES! I took this photo from the balcony of the top-floor apartment I was offered, and began a two-month process of filling out paperwork to get it. <p></p><p><b>JUNE 2020</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4JTBWNoEHkI/X-uTeZtw1pI/AAAAAAAABGo/qfOh7jZTZ1EF3sMTROrNdmQj4ZlX83c0gCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogJune.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4JTBWNoEHkI/X-uTeZtw1pI/AAAAAAAABGo/qfOh7jZTZ1EF3sMTROrNdmQj4ZlX83c0gCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogJune.jpg" /></a></div><p>Every summer, I buy and freeze multiple pints of Chandler strawberries, those small ruby jewels packed with flavor. That ensures me a six-month supply for my smoothies.</p><p><b>JULY 2020</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i-asuYO9v_Q/X-uTdjgq8jI/AAAAAAAABGk/F8seuqfX7kYfAFfHYBSOcTlu91ljMZd4gCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogJuly.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i-asuYO9v_Q/X-uTdjgq8jI/AAAAAAAABGk/F8seuqfX7kYfAFfHYBSOcTlu91ljMZd4gCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogJuly.jpg" /></a></div><p>Who moves during a global pandemic? Me, as carefully and thoughtfully as possible. The building has 120 units, and someday, when the lounge reopens and we can have each other over for coffee or wine, I'll have a bevy of new friends. Residents I've met in the elevators, the lobby and the laundry room all have been warm and welcoming.</p><p><b>AUGUST 2020</b> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-au8sxhH8nUE/X-uTcEtYGPI/AAAAAAAABGg/1WvQ7wjkzAglZE5giWjBSHW4VMsdF3DZQCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogAug.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-au8sxhH8nUE/X-uTcEtYGPI/AAAAAAAABGg/1WvQ7wjkzAglZE5giWjBSHW4VMsdF3DZQCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogAug.jpg" /></a></div><p>Heirloom tomatoes, delivered by a food service that works with local farmers, made me happy all summer. And I am a Huge Snob about tomatoes -- I routinely reject orange polyester slices that are mere wannabes. </p><p><b>SEPTEMBER 2020</b> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XOAffdbxdxw/X-uThGckQ4I/AAAAAAAABG0/ng-AvvbgQPYV7Df0zTZaz077h_JN_NEuwCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogSept.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XOAffdbxdxw/X-uThGckQ4I/AAAAAAAABG0/ng-AvvbgQPYV7Df0zTZaz077h_JN_NEuwCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogSept.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>What can you be grateful for when this toxic, ash-laden air is present during fire season? I wept for those who lost everything, but was grateful that the wildfires were not at the edge of my driveway, devouring the city where I live.</p><p><b>OCTOBER 2020</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3DdNYSneRhU/X-uTg-h1oII/AAAAAAAABG0/o9hvxEWoNnQeV0awb-ZaxWZcyyTJx1z8wCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogOct.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3DdNYSneRhU/X-uTg-h1oII/AAAAAAAABG0/o9hvxEWoNnQeV0awb-ZaxWZcyyTJx1z8wCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogOct.jpg" /></a></div>The unstable political situation led me to volunteer with Vote Forward, writing letters to inactive registered voters in six different states, urging them to make their voices heard. We volunteers paid for stamps and envelopes, and the work also cost time, something I had plenty of. The reward was the satisfaction of Doing Something Useful.<p></p><p><b>NOVEMBER 2020</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-20QgPIVQU_c/X-uTgFe5U0I/AAAAAAAABGw/M2fLm86mrxsLMS9T-WMEl0o-ABnDGGP-ACPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogNov.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1616" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-20QgPIVQU_c/X-uTgFe5U0I/AAAAAAAABGw/M2fLm86mrxsLMS9T-WMEl0o-ABnDGGP-ACPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogNov.jpg" /></a></div><p>Joy on the balcony looks like this -- my orange and red geraniums, still in full flower in November. I'm not a gardening person, as I fret too much about watering, feeding and draining, but this worked out well! Don't ask me how much time I spend sitting outside talking with the geraniums, Molly Ivins (see January) and a lovely jade plant that was a gift. </p><p><b>DECEMBER 2020</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Q4XJq3vYUw/X-uTcJTelzI/AAAAAAAABG0/aPJDImv4reU6-0q279QuoXS2RsU8zhPBwCPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogDec.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Q4XJq3vYUw/X-uTcJTelzI/AAAAAAAABG0/aPJDImv4reU6-0q279QuoXS2RsU8zhPBwCPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogDec.jpg" /></a></div><p>A minimalist year seemed to call for a minimalist Christmas, and this was part of my few decorations. Red and green, even when you're blue, add a festive note, even when absolutely no one will be popping in to see how nice everything looks. Still, I was here to appreciate it. </p><p><b>JANUARY 2021</b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wWLjAre2aok/X-uTdBWBE1I/AAAAAAAABGo/kcoSM2JSI007LC65qp1H6YL62MVUvq-3ACPcBGAYYCw/s2048/BlogJan2021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1803" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wWLjAre2aok/X-uTdBWBE1I/AAAAAAAABGo/kcoSM2JSI007LC65qp1H6YL62MVUvq-3ACPcBGAYYCw/s320/BlogJan2021.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Behold a leafy sea dragon, a resident at the California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park. I took this photo in December 2019, on a visit there with my beloved grandson. Since March, for safety's sake, I've been in his presence exactly four times, though he lives close by. That hurts.</p><p>My great hope for 2021 is to once again spend time at the Academy — and the zoo, and Little League games and at his house and mine and anywhere else we may choose to go. My resolution for the new year is this: I vow to never again take for granted a moment spent with my family and friends. </p><p>Now bring on that vaccine! </p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-44515689429926650052020-10-26T16:47:00.001-07:002020-10-26T16:47:53.114-07:00An Homage to My Balcony<p>A small wind chime gives voice to a breeze. A gifted singer practices an aria. A deep-throated fog horn issues a warning. A dog barks. A child, walking hand-in-hand with her mother, laughs. A raven caws and I reply with, "Nevermore." This symphony is ever-changing, ever-urban and ever-interesting. Sitting on my balcony, high up on the top floor of my 13-story building, I hear it all. </p><p>There is much to see, as well. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pswxCd6F8Wk/X5dSOPGU4zI/AAAAAAAABDE/f6IEmX6VOeo_ns4c1XARIRszcyZySoJ7ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/MLTBalcony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pswxCd6F8Wk/X5dSOPGU4zI/AAAAAAAABDE/f6IEmX6VOeo_ns4c1XARIRszcyZySoJ7ACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/MLTBalcony.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>The balcony faces due west, toward the edge of the continent, which lies just 5.6 miles from my apartment. Some of San Francisco’s hills hide the Pacific Ocean from me, but I never forget that the vast body of water is there. Looking southwest, I see the Sutro Tower, a landmark that punctuates the sky, and also the smaller towers atop Twin Peaks, which sit 922 feet above sea level. To the north, I see high-rise apartment buildings, the dome of a synagogue, assorted church spires, the beautiful Marin Headlands and – a bonus – the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FcIwfydioU/X5dT_LOlHoI/AAAAAAAABDw/FhMFh06CZtcfz8QpK2w2zDD0Fmv-Z9nHgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/BridgeBalcony10-2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1363" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8FcIwfydioU/X5dT_LOlHoI/AAAAAAAABDw/FhMFh06CZtcfz8QpK2w2zDD0Fmv-Z9nHgCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/BridgeBalcony10-2020.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>All that more than makes up for the small size of my one-bedroom apartment. As my friend Emmeline noted gleefully, “You've got a balcony with an apartment attached!” That I do. My old place in San Francisco measured 720 square feet, so fitting my stuff in here was tricky. For weeks before I moved (see the previous blog post for details on that decision), I arranged and rearranged paper cutouts of my furniture on a floor plan, despairing about where to put what. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1KNW96NBhfA/X5dSm4QvPlI/AAAAAAAABDM/wEIcF20kOxE_A9sfHdI5mY-KwAKzFBbXACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/aptfloorplan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1494" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1KNW96NBhfA/X5dSm4QvPlI/AAAAAAAABDM/wEIcF20kOxE_A9sfHdI5mY-KwAKzFBbXACLcBGAsYHQ/w291-h400/aptfloorplan.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><p>My son identified the problem immediately. “You live alone,” he said, “but you have seating for 11.” It's true. I like a lot of seating, a holdover from when I owned a 1,700-square-foot condo and often invited 70 people over to celebrate whatever occasion needed noting. Still, those days are long past.</p><p>When I considered keeping the Italian leather loveseat and letting go of the sturdy chaise, my son pointed out that I never actually sit on the loveseat, that I’m always on the chaise, reading or watching TV or having a nap. “You have to keep the chaise,” he said. He was right, and I did. Still, when we are once again able to entertain in our homes, the new apartment will seat all eight members of my immediate family inside. If that feels crowded, two or three of them can sit out on the balcony.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Am3qZG8e1k/X5dS3ZgIGYI/AAAAAAAABDU/c1zV3g_joPIiFTUNhc1q7BrMz5Hs7i7QACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/BalconyChairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Am3qZG8e1k/X5dS3ZgIGYI/AAAAAAAABDU/c1zV3g_joPIiFTUNhc1q7BrMz5Hs7i7QACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/BalconyChairs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>As a longtime home owner, in the past I often lived in houses that came with yards. My favorite was the one behind the house I inherited from my parents. There, I planted a 14-foot-tall ginkgo tree, a gift from the city of St. Louis after I wrote a feature article for the newspaper about my favorite tree. Pink peonies and purple iris, planted by my maternal grandmother, also grew in that yard. My cousin Linda planted black parrot tulips along the back fence and filled the flower box out front with red geraniums, orange poppies and other beautiful flowers. </p><p>Eventually I sold that house and moved to a second-story condo with a small balcony. In winter, the view was just the brick condo across the green space, but in spring and summer, trees obscured the building. A nesting pair of cardinals lived in one of those trees, so I spent time learning the birds’ calls and repeating them back to them. I got so good at it that one year, a baby cardinal often sat on the balcony rail or my window sill and whistled back.</p><p>Perhaps the best part of that balcony was the wooden screen door that led to it, an old-fashioned one that would slam with a satisfying "thwack" as I went in and out whenever my work schedule allowed. Still, the balcony was in the Midwest, where it’s often too hot or too cold to enjoy such a perch. Most of the year, weather in San Francisco is far more temperate, so I enjoy my new balcony often. I go out to tend to my geraniums and my jade plant, I check daily to see if the fog is heading in or I just sit in the sunshine, listening to the sounds of the city. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OwyN08l_BtY/X5dTRAF5dKI/AAAAAAAABDg/GNqtFW7qlZANDz2ZHWKeOx8w6ds3g1XqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/balconyflowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OwyN08l_BtY/X5dTRAF5dKI/AAAAAAAABDg/GNqtFW7qlZANDz2ZHWKeOx8w6ds3g1XqgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/balconyflowers.jpg" /></a></div><p>Recently I’ve popped outside to watch a romantic skywriting pilot draw a big heart for his wife, to observe red-tailed hawks hunting and to see protesters on the march, making frequent use of their loudspeakers. (Most recently, Catholics were insisting they had a right to worship inside their church, global pandemic be damned. That day, I came back inside and wrote a letter to the San Francisco Chronicle questioning the wisdom of the city’s archbishop, who had encouraged the protest. I can protest, too!) </p><p>Well before dawn on August 16, I stood on the balcony in awe, watching as flashing lightning lit up the sky for almost three hours. More than 2,500 lightning strikes were recorded in the Bay Area that morning. I was out there again on Sept. 9, when multiple horrific wildfires in the north were responsible for a thick layer of smoke and ash that turned the sky here dark orange. I took the photo below about 9 a.m., and by 10 a.m., the sky was even darker. The sun’s rays never did pierce the marine layer that rested above the thick smoke that day. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jrKCJnVVIS8/X5dTv0rd6mI/AAAAAAAABDs/2MuWpzxozGQIHmX-DXUbUatESf_2oas6gCLcBGAsYHQ/s1280/Orange209092020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jrKCJnVVIS8/X5dTv0rd6mI/AAAAAAAABDs/2MuWpzxozGQIHmX-DXUbUatESf_2oas6gCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/Orange209092020.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>My balcony, the best spare room I've ever had, keeps me in constant touch with the city where I live, which makes sheltering in place easier -- and I’m grateful.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0JPyzqY4tuE/X5dTDVL5JwI/AAAAAAAABDY/ZoHMtZhPmQQpVefyCiWK54sVyNFF3YohACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/balconysunsetOct2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1614" data-original-width="2048" height="315" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0JPyzqY4tuE/X5dTDVL5JwI/AAAAAAAABDY/ZoHMtZhPmQQpVefyCiWK54sVyNFF3YohACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h315/balconysunsetOct2020.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-6466609301334254132020-08-25T19:04:00.000-07:002020-08-25T19:04:25.401-07:00Amenities Make Moving in 2020 Worthwhile <p>Elevators! A 13.5'x6' balcony! An office staff that takes in packages! A box for outgoing mail! A big, clean laundry room with machines that work! Trash disposal just down the hall! A maintenance crew available five days a week! Free frozen pizza! </p><p>At my age, amenities matter, and after spending more than two years on a waiting list hoping to make a nest in an apartment building in San Francisco for people 62 and older, I finally got in. How? People on the waiting list ahead of me chose not to look at available units, much less relocate, during a global pandemic. I decided the opportunity was too good to pass up, and I moved in one month ago today. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lLf8kmeFH6w/X0W6aZfi7mI/AAAAAAAABAU/F0Ej2eMxJ3okwU3veoULPuvWmmI4rhENQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/MovingMessJuly2020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lLf8kmeFH6w/X0W6aZfi7mI/AAAAAAAABAU/F0Ej2eMxJ3okwU3veoULPuvWmmI4rhENQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/MovingMessJuly2020.jpg" /></a></div><p>Wait – frozen pizza? </p><p>Residents here put unwanted items on a table in the lobby. I’ve seen fresh peaches, a box of hair coloring, table placemats, books and packaged granola bars on it. One day, a boxed frozen pizza sat there, slowly defrosting. A member of the maintenance crew and I laughed about it. He said, “People put whatever they don’t want on the corner of that table, and somebody always takes it.” </p><p>The 13-story building has 120 units, ranging from small studios to 650-square-foot, one-bedroom apartments. I live on the top floor in a unit that measures just 500 square feet, but that alluring balcony I mentioned faces west, my favorite direction. I’m a longtime sunset aficionado, and I also can see the south tower of the Golden Gate Bridge and the headlands beyond. The building even has a two-room guest apartment, available for a very reasonable fee. (Remember when people traveled?)</p><p>Right now, we residents have a lot of rules. We must wear masks when moving about the building. The elevators are limited to two passengers, and only one person is permitted in the laundry room at a time. Social distancing is required in the lobby, and inviting guests over is discouraged. The lounge with the big-screen TV where Giants fans gather to watch games together is closed just now, so I haven’t met many of my neighbors. Those I have encountered have been warm and welcoming, and I look forward to making new friends here. </p><p>Though for much of my life, I owned single-family homes, this is not my first experience living with a lot of other people. Before moving to San Francisco from St. Louis a decade ago, I enjoyed sharing a four-story building with 32 other condo dwellers. There, I became close friends with several women, all 10 or 15 years older than me, and I learned much from them about how to age gracefully. </p><p>That condo was spacious – 1,700 square feet – and moving to a 720-square-foot apartment in San Francisco required a considerable adjustment. I wrote about it (<a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/how-lose-1000-square-feet--and-keep-it/">https://www.nextavenue.org/how-lose-1000-square-feet--and-keep-it/</a>) for Next Avenue, the PBS-sponsored site for people 50 and older. A few months ago, one evening when I expressed concerns about the challenges of moving again, my daughter-in-law said, “It won’t be as hard as your last move, because you’re only going a couple of miles.” Remembering that helped as I pondered downsizing once again. </p><p>Every time I move, I vacillate between wanting to take what I already own and wanting all new stuff. (“Just take your purse,” one friend always insists.) The new apartment boasts a new fridge, stove, sink and countertop, plus new flooring throughout, and all that eased much of my desire to start all over completely. Plus, I bought a new-to-me floor lamp, a small side table and a TV stand, and that has kept the new place from looking exactly like the old one. </p><p>As a birthday gift, my son and daughter-in-law gave me a beautiful desk that takes up far less space than my old one, so that's new, too. Gift cards from friends paid for balcony furniture, a coat rack, a bathroom shelf unit, purple placemats and a red kitchen clock. Two friends who live in the new building left a beautiful jade plant at my door, and another friend is nurturing a pot of geraniums for my balcony. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gsq7FE5_iQI/X0W7Vyn0YdI/AAAAAAAABA0/z7cvUVL7KoQV_fYoOG21QAcRXRCV02BhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/WesternView.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gsq7FE5_iQI/X0W7Vyn0YdI/AAAAAAAABA0/z7cvUVL7KoQV_fYoOG21QAcRXRCV02BhQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/WesternView.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>In preparation for the move, over a two-month period, I accustomed myself to living without a dishwasher. I donated at least 15 bags to Goodwill. I sold a desk, a futon and a big TV cabinet on Craigslist, and sent two pieces of furniture and a lamp to a consignment shop. Friends took two end tables and two rugs. And I gave two rugs and the microwave oven to the movers. One mover was tempted by two lamps I hoped to get rid of, but resisted. “No more lamps, my wife says,” he confessed, laughing. Another of the other movers said his wife would be thrilled to have them, and took them out to the truck.</p><p>When I first moved to California, I found good homes for 46 boxes of books, telling myself that by removing them from my shelves and putting them in circulation, the books would find new readers ready to be entertained, enlightened or educated. This time, I had just two book cases, but I knew I could take only one with me, and the smaller one at that. I wrote about the process, (<a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/parting-with-treasured-books/">https://www.nextavenue.org/parting-with-treasured-books/</a>) in the hope of inspiring others still holding on to hefty book collections. </p><p>Well before moving day, the head of the company I’d chosen did a virtual walk-through of my apartment and sent me information outlining all the protective health measures the movers would take while packing up in my place during a pandemic. I could have opted not to be there that day, but where would I go? I stayed, and we all wore masks and kept our distance. The movers wore gloves while packing, but said their hands would slip on the packing tape while carrying boxes and furniture to and from the truck. I made peace with that, and soon enough the job got done. </p><p>One month in, and what do I think? I’m delighted! The building is clean and quiet, with none of the unsettling drama present in my former building. (A sad domestic situation in one of the units had affected all of us for well over a year.) Of course, the pandemic is still with us, and the threat of exposure to the virus while I run any errand is an issue. Plus, right now, some 500 wildfires are burning in the state, and the Bay Area is experiencing alarming levels of dangerous air pollution due to the smoke. </p><p>Still, I moved before the fires started, before flu season and before the uptick in virus cases predicted for this fall. And each week, the management company has informed us that so far, no one in the building has been diagnosed with Covid-19. I’m aware that I took a risk – but I believe it was worth it. I love my new home!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n2IpvOv_g0k/X0W7CrxHufI/AAAAAAAABAs/9ui1w3-HoDw5XPGV7jKwxmckmSe4Ubg3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/unpacked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n2IpvOv_g0k/X0W7CrxHufI/AAAAAAAABAs/9ui1w3-HoDw5XPGV7jKwxmckmSe4Ubg3ACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/unpacked.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><div><br /></div>LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-54695769621149607532020-04-14T13:46:00.002-07:002020-05-01T11:31:35.217-07:00The Essential Me/The Booze Diary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sheltering in place since March 10, I now am completely acquainted with my Essential Self. My Must-Haves include:<br />
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* Clean sweatpants, t-shirts and tie-dye socks<br />
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* A Zoom Costume for my upper half, complete with dangly earrings<br />
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* Songs from the '60s on Amazon music, with digressions for Pavarotti, Paul Simon, Carol King, Vadim Gluzman, Bob Dylan, Enya, Iz and assorted Broadway cast albums<br />
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* Russet potatoes, dark chocolate, eggs, canned tuna, mayo, rye bread and naan, yogurt, honey crisp apples and Cara Cara oranges, La Terra Fina dip, nacho fixings, occasional salads, Trader Joe's Everything Crackers, fizzy water and, now and then, really good Italian sausage<br />
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* A charged phone to stay in touch with family and friends, my Kindle and Netflix<br />
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* Enjoyable freelance writing and editing assignments<br />
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* Exotic alcoholic beverages for my weekly cocktail – I celebrate on Tuesdays<br />
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Apart from the crucial paper products and cleaning supplies everyone else relies on, that’s about it.<br />
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<b>Hugs Are a No-No </b><br />
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Remember when we first stopped shaking hands?<br />
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The discussion about the dangers of that form of contact started late in February and by the first week in March, elbow-bumping, accompanied by laughter, was in vogue in some circles. (We also were laughing about people who were afraid to drink Corona beer. That turned out not to be true.)<br />
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On March 4, as I was leaving the neighborhood nail salon, the manicurist hugged me. We quickly shrieked and pulled apart, realizing we had just violated a new taboo. We bumped elbows and I left for my book club meeting. That wasn’t my last hug.<br />
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The next day, I got to snuggle with my grandson while we watched a nature show on TV, and I gave him a really big hug when his parents picked him up at my place later in the evening. A few days later, I had to make peace with the idea that hanging out with the boy might be a bad idea because he could be exposed to the coronavirus at school. On March 16, the public schools in San Francisco closed.<br />
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That also was the day that Mayor London Breed and the mayors of five other counties ordered Bay Area residents to shelter in place. Three days later, California Governor Gavin Newsom announced that policy would extend to include the entire state. Heck, I’d been staying in before that, because a week earlier Newsom had recommended that people 60 and older just stay home. So I did.<br />
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Full Disclosure: I’ve gone out twice; once to drop gifts off on a family member’s front steps and once to make sure the Pacific Ocean was still there. Somebody must have ratted on me about that trip, because the next day, Newsom closed all the parking lots at the beach. In retrospect, I’m so glad I swung by on that outing to say hi to the bison in Golden Gate Park. We’re friends.<br />
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The upside of sheltering in place: When you call someone, they likely will answer. If not, maybe they’ve gone to the grocery, which requires standing six feet apart in lines that sometimes stretch for blocks and may put your health at risk. Or maybe they ducked out for curbside pick-up at one of the few restaurants still open. They could have opted to take a walk in the neighborhood. Only 17 of the 79 bus lines are still operating here, and driving can be risky.<br />
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<b>The Booze Diary </b><br />
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Just ask the seven people who drove from Fremont to Santa Cruz to buy booze. On April 11, each was fined $1,000 for violating the shelter-in-place order. (<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2020/04/12/us/santa-cruz-fine-drinks-stay-home-order-trnd/index.html">www.cnn.com/2020/04/12/us/santa-cruz-fine-drinks-stay-home-order-trnd/index.html</a>) Drink up, guys.<br />
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Speaking of alcohol, check out my Booze Diary:<br />
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Tuesday March 3: Savor a Pisco Punch at the Old Ship Saloon. (<a href="http://www.theoldshipsf.com/">www.theoldshipsf.com/</a>)<br />
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Weds. March 4: Read widely about Pisco – did you know it is a Peruvian brandy, made for centuries?<br />
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Thurs. March 5: Vow to enjoy Pisco again at Old Ship Saloon at my earliest opportunity.<br />
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Tues. March 24: I’m reading Isabel Allende's new book “A Long Petal of the Sea,” and I get to the part where the main character sits down to enjoy a glass of Pisco. I'm envious. I want some!<br />
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Weds. March 25: BevMo rejects my Zip Code for delivery and Wine Traders on Taraval does not deliver. I order a bottle of Pisco from another local wine company.<br />
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Thurs March 26: Receive order confirmation; am quite smug.<br />
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Tues. March 31: Freak out about spending $50 on alcohol at a time when my freelance work could dry up. Email the wine shop requesting cancellation.<br />
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Weds. April 1: Receive a form email saying the shop is SWAMPED with orders (<a href="http://www.sfchronicle.com/wine/article/The-Bay-Area-is-drinking-42-more-alcohol-than-15167591.php">www.sfchronicle.com/wine/article/The-Bay-Area-is-drinking-42-more-alcohol-than-15167591.php</a>) and my delivery will be delayed, I call the shop and leave a message requesting cancellation.<br />
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Thurs. April 2: Send another email; receive a second form email.<br />
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Fri. April 3: Send a third email, begging the shop to cancel my order and promising to buy a bottle of Pisco when the End Times end. If.<br />
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Sat. April 4, Morning: Receive an email saying my order has been cancelled -- happy dance!<br />
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Sat. April 4, Afternoon: Receive an email saying my Pisco will be delivered on Wednesday, and I see my credit card has been charged. I reply to the email, writing “No No No!” in the subject line.<br />
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Sat. April 4, Evening: On a Zoom call, I tell three friends my sad story. Julia says, "A bartender friend gave me a bottle of Pisco a few years ago. I never opened it, and you can have it." Wonderful!<br />
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Mon. April 6: The wine shop issues a refund on my credit card.<br />
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Tues. April 7: A friend drops off a bottle of M Squared Spirits (<a href="http://www.msquaredspirits.com/">www.msquaredspirits.com/</a>), her husband's brand of blended craft cocktails. I celebrate the full moon with a deliciously smooth whiskey sour.<br />
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Tues. April 14: Tonight is Pisco Night!<br />
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Carry on, people. We must.<br />
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LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27117414415297190.post-3332095293825650092020-03-15T13:03:00.000-07:002020-03-15T13:03:19.258-07:00Reflections on Past Concerns, Current Practices <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Just three weeks ago, I worried whether I was in the right athletic shoe, if I would like the new duvet cover I’d ordered and if that single black hair was about to emerge from my chin once again. Such simple times -– how I miss them.<br />
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Hunkered down because of an auto-immune disease, a history of respiratory infections and the startling realization, once again, that I am old, now I fret because the news reports that many people are out and about, because I fear small businesses in my neighborhood won’t survive and because local grocery deliveries are fully booked four days out.<br />
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These all are locally focused concerns, and I live in San Francisco, which has taken a fairly aggressive stance regarding public safety in this strange time. Yet when out for a solo drive yesterday so the rain could wash my car, through restaurant windows I saw people eating at crowded tables and standing in a bunched-up line outside a popular bistro, with no thought for social distancing.<br />
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Isn’t it our civic duty to follow guidelines devised to protect us and to keep hospitals from being overtaxed? Some cities in Italy are out of hospital beds, ventilators and masks. “It’s not a wave. It’s a tsunami,” Dr. Roberto Rona told the PBS News Hour. (<a href="http://www.pbs.org/newshour/health/not-a-wave-a-tsunami-italy-hospitals-at-virus-limit">www.pbs.org/newshour/health/not-a-wave-a-tsunami-italy-hospitals-at-virus-limit</a>) Rona is in charge of intensive care at a hospital in Monza, just north of Milan. Why would we assume that tsunami won’t reach the U.S.? <br />
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I drive back home, convinced I’ve become a common scold. I’ve known for quite a while that I can control only my own actions, but I guess I haven’t yet fully reconciled with that. I have figured out that people are misinterpreting the 14-day period recommended for those exposed to the virus. Some seem to think that dictum means in 14 days, we’ll all be good to go back to our normal lives, that just a two-week break will do it. That’s not what happened in China, Italy or South Korea, and it will not happen here.<br />
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<b>On Defiantly Touching My Face</b><br />
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Public and private schools on much of the west coast are now closed, and the practice is spreading east. Universities across the country are shifting to on-line learning for the rest of the semester. The San Francisco Symphony has canceled all concerts through April. Major League Baseball may not resume games until June. Johnny Cueto, a pitcher with the San Francisco Giants, told the San Francisco Chronicle, “Right now, baseball is not important.”<br />
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Back at my apartment after my drive through the neighborhood, I place a paper towel between my hand and the stair railing. Once I’m inside, I grab a disinfecting wipe and return to the foyer to clean the railing Just In Case. Then I wash my hands. Next, I indulge in a secret, taboo practice -- I touch my face.<br />
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I love to touch my face, though until recently I was never particularly aware of the habit. I smooth my forehead, I massage my eyebrows to ensure better sinus drainage, I rub my cheeks and chin as I open and close my clenched jaw. Then I wash my hands and face and apply a moisturizing mask, because I can’t pretend that I have no time for skincare.<br />
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The hard part of all this? The isolation. My card-playing group has canceled our gatherings. Before local theaters closed their doors, I’d resolved not to use my tickets. Meeting friends for lunch or coffee is now out. Instinctively, many baby boomers have turned away from texting and emailing and are reaching out to one another by phone, settling in for long talks about this, that and, of course, COVID-19. We well know the dangers of social isolation, (<a href="http://www.nextavenue.org/science-of-brain-health-inspires-a-storyteller/">www.nextavenue.org/science-of-brain-health-inspires-a-storyteller/</a>) and we are doing what we can.<br />
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Even harder is missing the soul-satisfying feel of a sturdy hug from my grandson. Two weeks ago, his dad called to say he and my daughter-in-law had realized that the boy, who has brought home many a cold shared at his elementary school, could be an unwitting carrier of the virus. “He could potentially kill you,” my son said. (As I always say, life is too short to be subtle!) He wanted to talk about suspending Nana Day for a while, and hoped I would see the wisdom in the plan.<br />
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<b>On Recalling the Good Old Days </b><br />
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I agreed with the plan and replied, “Did you think I would stamp my foot and insist on risking being exposed?” Then I grabbed a tissue to catch the tears dribbling down my face. So the boy and I are apart for now, and maybe for quite some time. We will talk on FaceTime occasionally and I’ve asked him to draw pictures for me. Maybe I’ll mail jokes to him. I miss him in a visceral way.<br />
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Today, pondering whether to order a grocery delivery, I fondly recall a personal visit to the store, made over two weeks ago when people were just beginning to stock up. Even then, the check-out lines were so long the manager had to get on the public address system to ask customers to stop "clumping up" at the aisle entrances.<br />
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Seeing the crowd, one customer entering the store at 10:20 a.m. quipped, "Wow! Why is everybody up so early?" Some shoppers were dressed for the day, one guy had on flannel pajamas and a woman wore a silver-sequined jacket, possibly from the night before -- or maybe because it’s her normal attire on Sunday mornings. This is San Francisco, after all.<br />
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Second best sighting: A man in line with three packs of toilet paper, each 12 double rolls. (Ah, the good old days, when toilet paper was easily available!) Best sighting: A 5-year-old boy doing masterful hip hop moves out front, where his sister was selling Girl Scout cookies. As he didn’t have a tip jar, I gave his mom $2 for the boy to spend on Legos, while his dad proudly revealed his son is self-taught. When I told the little guy what a great dancer he is, he said, "I'm the best dancer in my school."<br />
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May he soon be back in school, leading us all in a victory dance. We also can look forward to grocery shelves fully stocked with toilet paper, hand sanitizer and over-the-counter cold remedies. And when it’s safe, may we all be free once again to hug family and friends. Onward to spring!<br />
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<br />LateToTheHaighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08978315797471967777noreply@blogger.com0